


The Beach House

by Englandwouldfall



Series: Beach House [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Childhood Friends, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Relationship Healing, Romance, Vacation, and beach metaphors, bittersweet emotional healing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:07:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 35,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22027561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Englandwouldfall/pseuds/Englandwouldfall
Summary: They've spoken a couple of times in the last seven years, so it was probably a bad idea to agree to a two week vacation in their old summer haunt to babysit Cas through his grief.Obviously, he did it anyway.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Series: Beach House [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1624372
Comments: 61
Kudos: 220
Collections: The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	1. Day 1

Not much has changed about the beach house in the eight or so years since Dean was last here: there’s the same slightly peeling paint on the porch, and the same worn old deck chairs that creak in protest when you open them and the same square of pool that’s not quite long enough to swim properly. Really, it’s always been more of a _beach shack_ , which was always part of why he felt comfortable here.

When a fumbling and awkward twelve year old Castiel first invited the Winchesters along to the annual vacation at the beach house, he’d pictured another space like the Milton’s house, with wide corridors, high ceilings and more space than bought-up-on-the-road Dean had ever really _seen_ in a place someone called home. He’d _wanted to go_ (had been ready to fight John Winchester tooth and nail for it, too, but his Dad had surprised him with ‘if your buddy’s rich and dumb enough to want to take you both on a free vacation, then that’s his damn problem’), but he’d been… aware that it was just going to widen the gap between them even further, and that Cas was probably never going to _see_ that Dean Winchester was white trash, while Cas had the big fancy house, the _beach house_ , the college fund and the future. 

But, the beach house was a pokey little thing that sat right on the sea, that barely had a table big enough for all the Miltons to sit round, and bunk beds in box rooms, and Dean instantly fell in love with it. It reminded him just enough of tired, once nice motel rooms he’d grown up in to feel like home, and was far away enough from his actual life to feel like escape. Some years, he and Cas got a room by themselves, and they’d stay up talking about dumb crap way too late every damn night they were here, and others they were in with Sam and Samandriel, or Gabriel or any of the others, and they’d bitch about it but it would still be kind of fun, too. They probably couldn’t all _fit_ in the pool at the same time, so mostly the older Miltons would head down to the beach and stake out their own plot, and the younger lot would hang around the pool or try to tag along, and Dean would sometimes hang out with his brother but, more often than not, he and Cas would find the two black deck chairs with yellow, jagged stripes that almost looked like lightning ( _’these are awesome’_ twelve year old Dean had declared and after some unknown interference from Cas, no one had ever tried to take them again), set them out in the semi-shade of the porch, and watch it all happen. 

Now, twenty years later and eight years since Dean last set foot in the place, Castiel wordlessly dug out their deckchairs and set them up sometime before Dean woke up. 

They’re all sleeping in separate rooms, now, and it feels a little weird. There’s only the three of them _at_ the beach house, which is the quietest that Dean’s ever experienced it, but it’s…. It’s been a long time since he’s been in Cas’ orbit, and --- it’s good that it’s just them. 

“Hey,” Dean says, stepping out into the porch and feeling the familiar complaint from the stairs as he pads down them. He… well, he assumed that Cas setting up their old chairs means he _wants_ to talk -- hell, he’d taken the invite of two weeks at the beach house this summer, just like old times, as a sign that Cas wanted to talk, after seven and a half years of silence that gave way at Chuck’s funeral, four months back -- but, it’s all still a little awkward. 

Not as awkward as he thought it _would_ be, but… they all just need to get used to each other again. He’s goddamn thirty two. A fully fledged freaking adult, not that he acts like it, and the last time they really talked Cas was still at college and Sam hadn’t finished high school. Cas has been honest to god married since then (and _fuck_ does that turn his stomach over), they’ve both had real jobs for a long time, and they’ve all lost their fathers in that time gap. Nothing’s quite the _same_ as it was back then, even if the beach house still smells like ice pops, sea salt and sunblock. 

“Bought you uh… a coffee,” Dean finishes, faltering when he catches up with the fact that Cas already has a mug cradled in his hands, staring out over the pool. “Should have figured.” 

“Thank you,” Castiel says, looking up at him with a soft smile that Dean’s really fucking missed. He doesn’t really know how he even let it become seven years, anyway. That had never been his intention at the time. After the fight, he figured… he figured they’d make up in a couple of weeks, or months, but that they were best friends. That it was just one of those facts of the universe that he couldn’t escape, even when it made him _crazy_ and bitter and mad at the whole damn world for setting up that way: _best friends, buddies, pals_. And then… things happened. Life happened and then it all felt too late, like too much time had passed, and they were suddenly too different, with too much water under the bridge to wage through. “Did you sleep well?” 

“Uh,” Dean says, sitting down and setting the other, spare coffee down next to his left foot carefully. The truth is he slept like crap, painfully aware that Cas was just down the hall and that they were on the cusp of rebuilding… _something_ , but that seems impolite given Cas gave him the master freaking bedroom and set the AC on a few hours before they were due to arrive like he’s gunning for a five star review on Airbnb. “Better than the last time I was here.” 

Cas thinks for a moment. 

“Gabriel and Kali,” 

“Yup,” 

“That was a tiresome summer,” Cas agrees, setting down his own coffee to pick up the one that Dean made him instead and taking a sip. “Is your brother still asleep?” 

“No, the freak,” Dean says, “Text me saying he’s gone for a run,” 

“Ah,” Castiel says, “Yes. He is a freak.” 

Dean snorts and their knees accidentally brush together. 

He swallows the sharp _something_ in the back of his throat and rearranges his leg so they’re further away as subtly as possible. 

“This is _exactly the same_ ,” Dean exhales, “Even the freaking deckchairs, man.” 

“My brothers are well aware not to intrude on _your chairs_ Dean.” 

“Sure, because Michael’s ever respected my personal boundaries.” 

“Oh, I made my claim over you quite clear,” 

“Bet you did,” Dean says, and it’s meant to be lighthearted, but it doesn’t quite land like that. Cas visible tenses and withdraws and --- damnit. “Good freaking job, too.” He adds, running his thumb over a groove in the deckchair where Dean attempted to carve their initials into the chair with a steak knife when they were eighteen and about to go to college. He’d forgotten about that, and it hadn’t really worked anyway. They’d had an argument before he’d gotten any further than two indentations. 

Cas smiles again, but this time as though be believes he’s being pitied. 

“How are your brothers?” 

“Oh,” Cas says, breaking Dean’s gaze to look back out over the pool, “Largely, bickering over our father’s estate.” Dean raises an eyebrow. “No, I don’t think any of them are particularly in it for financial gain -- they just want to win. You remember what they can be like whenever there’s a competition, and some of the legal protection my father put in place to protect his wishes was… well, complicated. It is, mostly, about this place.” 

“Yeah?” 

“He --- basically, I don’t know how he did it, but he essentially turned the property into a timeshare and left each of us _part of the year_. No one can work out who actually owns it and --- well, Michael is ever practical and completely lacking in heart, and wishes to know how much each part of the whole is worth so we have the _option_ of selling. He says he has no intention _to sell_ and that he loves this place, but --- I think I am the only one who has returned for my weeks.” 

“Family, huh,” Dean says, running a thumb over the rim of his mug and glancing back out over the pool. “I’m sorry, Cas.” 

“It’s not of import. I’m not surprised by their behaviour.” 

“I don’t mean about that,” Dean says, “I mean -- about Chuck.” 

Cas looks at him again, intent enough that Dean feels naked and vulnerable and too far away all at the same time. It’s a long, lingering look. The kind that Dean used to crave and dread in equal measure; that they’ve exchanged on these same seats dozens of times in the later years, that made other people make those comments, or cough, or Sam give him one of those _I see right through you_ looks. 

“I appreciate that, Dean,” Castiel says, sincere and deep enough that it breaks some layer of politeness Dean didn’t even realise was still wedging them apart. 

By the time Sam is back from his run, something has shifted. They’ve crossed over from covering the basics - jobs, relationship status, living situation - into churning up old memories and sharing new, light hearted stories. 

He tells Cas about Charlie and her LARP empire as he cooks them all breakfast (and Sam interjects, a lot, about Dean’s stint as her handmaiden, which has Cas looking fond and soft enough that Dean’s not even mad at him), and Cas in turn tells them about his douchebag boss Zachariah’s attempt to teach them a lesson in crisis management by constructing a fake crisis without warning them in advance, which resulted in Cas inadvertently punching him in the face. Sam tells the story about Dean’s latest breakup, so Dean tells the story about Sam losing a shoe on his first date, and it’s all starting to feel... 

Normal. Good. 

And then - 

“Your brother got attractive,” Cas says. They’re back in their deckchairs, only now they’re kitted out in the swim trunks, t-shirts and sunblock (Cas kind of insisted, because he’s both a pain in the ass and because he has years of experience of how easily Dean starts to burn), with a couple of beers in ice even though it’s only 11 am because, what the hell, they’re on vacation and Cas is grieving so who really gives a damn. 

Dean chokes on his mouthful of beer before he remembers that he’s not _really_ supposed to give that kind of tell away in front of Cas, but --- really? 

“What?” Dean half splutters, sitting up straighter to follow Cas’ gaze which, just fucking awesome, is currently watching his gigantor of a brother making a dumbass of himself by trying to swim lengths in the tiny ass pool. Sam seems to have realised he’s _basically the same length as the pool_ because he hauls himself out with the ease of someone who goes to the gym for fun (freak) and sits on the edge instead. 

And Cas is _watching him_. 

“You,” Dean starts again, appalled and more jealous than he’d care to admit this side of hell, “You’re checking out my brother.” 

“Those shirts do not do him justice,” Castiel says which, okay, is kind of reasonable. He gets that Sam is in good shape (a helluva lot better shape than Dean, but who’s counting?) and that his lumpy flannel and jeans usually mask that fact, and maybe he could objectively say that Sam is not terrible-looking, but -- Cas is checking out his brother. That is a violation of a lot of the laws of the universe that Dean holds dear. 

“So _that’s_ your type,” Dean says, before he has a chance to filter the bitterness out of his voice. 

“You mean kind, intelligent and successful,” Castiel supplies, his gaze now drilling a hole into Dean’s skin, which at least means he’s no longer checking out his damn brother. “Tall, dark, handsome.” 

“I -- he has a girl’s haircut.” 

“His hair is long,” Casl concedes. 

“He _ties it up when he cooks_ , Cas.” 

“That’s very good food hygiene,” Cas says, “Another excellent quality to look for.” 

“Are you just fucking with me now?” 

“Perhaps,” Cas says, smile broadening, “Don’t worry Dean, I’m sure I’d comment on your physique too if you hadn’t made it clear that would upset your hetrosexuality.” Cas says, his voice light, like he’s reminding him of another old joke they shared, but that one isn’t one that Dean ever found funny. Plus, he’s pretty fucking sure that isn’t the first thing Cas would say if he saw him without a shirt on, these days. 

“Right,” Dean mutters, looking down at his beer and suddenly feeling slightly sick. It’s already a hot day and the sun hasn’t gotten into his stride yet, which means there’s hours more of Castiel, suddenly back in his life, stretching out his legs to catch the sun. Of seasalt, sweat and sunblock. Cas getting hot enough to take off his shirt, too, and Dean trying to work out how he plays this. He’s kind of dreading it, but also kind of not. 

The one thing no one ever warned him about coming out, was that you _kept having to do it_ over and over again for the rest of your life. 

“Or is this jealousy?” Castiel quips, leaning closer to smile at him. “I assure you, Dean, you’ll always be my favourite Winchester. We have a much more profound bond,” He continues, nudging their knees together with his final words. 

Dean jerks backwards because he’s a complete fucking idiot. 

Castiel’s smile drops and he sucks in a sharp breath. 

“I’m going to get my book,” He says. It’s stark robo-Cas this time, Dean’s least favorite of all the Cas-varieties, and he’s gone before Dean can so much as stutter out an attempt at an apology. 

Sam and he talked about this on the drive down here. He actually went and dragged the whole shitty thing up in the full technicolour detail that Dean sure as shit wasn’t going to share with Sam when he was a pig-headed teenage kid, but enough distance and journeys of self acceptance and therapy and all that shit has happened that they actually got into it. 

It was the first argument he’d ever had with Cas. The first of fucking thousands, obviously, but they’d never really fought before that, and it was all… it was all kind of a massive misunderstanding. Dean paved the way by being a closeted coward and Cas added fuel to the fire because he’s righteous and bone-headed and _wrong_ , most of the time, especially when it comes to how Dean feels. 

It was at the beach house, actually. The second night of the usual two week vacation when they were both sixteen. Dean was trying to hook up with this girl staying two houses down and Cas had dragged him away to _talk_ about ‘something important’. There was a bonfire happening on the beach, but they slunk back to their deckchairs in the dark with most of a six pack of beer they’d swiped from Lucifer. As it turns out, Cas was coming out. It was very _Cas_ in its blunt, apologetic sincerity, and Dean had sort of taken that to mean that Cas was totally cool with this whole thing, and had skipped the _obviously I don’t care that you like dudes_ bit and had spluttered out something a lot more like _do you like me?_

He gets why Cas had assumed Dean was doing the shitty straight guy ‘I’m grossed out that you fancy me’ shtick, rather than crossing his everything that Cas would say _yes_ so that then Dean could just lean forward and kiss him, and goddamn _do_ something with the insatiable desire to _get goddamn closer_ to Cas that had been building in the pit of his stomach every time he looked at him for months. Honestly, he gets why Cas shifted right over into chewing Dean out for his girl-chasing hetronormative insensitive bullcrap (and the beers probably hadn’t helped), even if he never quite understood why he didn’t just tell Cas what he really meant, instead of storming off down to the beach and winding up getting to third base with that girl on the beach that night, just to get back at him for calling him an assbut. Dean spent the rest of the summer hanging out with everyone _but_ Cas - the girl, Sam, Gabriel, hell- even Michael - for all the world like Cas had actually rejected him rather than _not answered_ , until they made up on the penultimate night of the trip. 

Dean didn’t tell him what he was really asking then, either. He just said the other stuff: that he didn’t care that Cas liked guys, or whatever, and that it didn’t really change anything. 

It did, though. They never _really_ got back on track. 

(And Sam, just before they took the turning to get here, fixed him with a serious expression and said _Dean, you know that he was in love with you for most of that time_ like it was obvious, so maybe if he’d been brave enough and worded it better, then everything could have changed then). 

“What did you do?” Sam asks, towelling off his hair as he takes Cas’ place in the deckchair and delivers the usual bitchface. It needles at him that Sam always assumes that Dean’s the shithead in any given situation, especially when it happens to be true. He takes another swig of his beer and shuts his eyes against the sun. “Dean.” 

“You’d think,” Dean says, “The guy lived under a fucking rock.” 

“It’s Cas.” 

“Pretty sure at least three of his brother’s have seen me on a date with a dude,” Dean says, “Hell, I ran into Gabriel at a gay bar. I _told_ Chuck after I broke up with… well. You know.” 

“You know he hasn’t really been in contact with his family, Dean,” Sam says. 

“He’s seen Gabriel in the past few years, at least.” 

“Maybe,” Sam says, “But, you know, sometimes straight guys go to gay bars.” 

“Not the kind of straight guy he thinks _I am_.” 

“Dean,” Sam says, all smug and Sam-like. His legs are comically too tall for the deckchair, and serves him right for stealing Cas’ seat. “You know my theory.” 

He _does_ know Sam’s theory, because Sam has taken great pains to explain it to him. At length. More than once. “Look,” Sam says, gentler, “Cas _wants_ you to be bisexual so badly that he’s convinced himself it can’t be true.” 

It’s a frustrating theory, because it ties exactly into Sam’s theory about Dean: that Dean is so convinced that Cas could never, ever, have feelings for him, that he’s steadfastly ignored all the copious amount of evidence to the contrary for the past fifteen years of his life. 

And --- maybe Sam was right when they were kids. And maybe this is all just… inherited baggage that they can work through. 

Fuck, Dean didn’t exactly think that he _was_ still in love with Castiel - he’d given the whole thing up as a bad job - until Cas had come up to him at the funeral, wrapped his arms around his neck and clung to him like his life goddamn depended on it. It seems pretty goddamn unlikely that Cas - married and divorced in the interim Cas - had managed to carry a torch for Dean that whole time too. 

“I dunno, Sam,” Dean sighs, picking at the label on his beer and considering edging his chair back, further into the shade. “He’s pretty fucking incredible.” 

Sam looks just plain sad, like he always does when Dean says something that smacks of self worth issues, but stops short of saying something when Cas reemerges from the house. 

“Hello Sam,” Cas says, and apparently Sam is reading the same book that Cas went to go get, so Dean winds up listening to them having an animiated, involved conversation about the literary devices used to create tension until he can’t fucking stand it anymore, and he declares he’s going to go for a walk. 

* 

If he could go back and change it, he’s not really sure what he’d do differently. He still doesn’t think he could have gone to Cas’s bullshit wedding or that would have changed much, but maybe he’d have backed out sooner, refused to be best man all together. Or, maybe he’d go back further, to that summer when they were eighteen, when Castiel had a hidden college acceptance to Stanford in his back pocket and was torturing himself over whether to tow the family line. 

Chuck was always kind and welcoming to Dean and Sam, but at fourteen Dean learnt that most of the year, aside for the sanctuary of the summers,Chuck was hardly there and parenting was often outsourced to their aunt. Naomi was controlling and demanding, and the curse of a large family meant everyone doing anything possible to demand attention. There was obedience, and rebellions, the family name, a perceived role in the world and there was a different kind of pressure to the hotbed of tension in the Winchester household, and Cas hated it. 

Dean said Cas should do what he wanted. That he should go to Stanford if he goddamn pleased, and screw what the rest of them thought. Maybe that was overcompensating too, because Dean really didn’t want him to go. Harvard was closer and Dean wanted him nearby and also didn’t think he should want him nearby, so he encouraged him to go. 

Maybe if he went back, he wouldn’t. He’d let Cas fall into the conveyor belt of the Harvard education Milton lawyers, and keep his hooks in him, just a little. 

Or maybe, he should go back two more summers, and kiss him in the moonlight after Castiel has told him he’s done some research and he’s concluded that he is gay. 

* 

Sam and Cas are too busy talking about lawyer stuff to be persuaded on lunch when he gets back from his sulk, even though it’s nearly two and Sam promised him he wouldn’t talk shop with Cas when he agreed to this thing (“Dean, don’t you think you two idiots just need to talk it out by yourselves?”). Dean starts cooking anyway and tries to pretend to himself that he’s not genuinely upset that Sam and Cas have a lot more to talk about, these days. 

They have always had a lot more in common, but… he used to have that special something with Cas that meant it didn’t matter. Now, it’s dissipated with time and their decisions. He’s glad that he’s here, cooking burgers in the creaky grill on the porch, but it’s still… harder than expected. 

The smell entices them up before the burgers are ready ready - Dean knew they were hungry really - and then Sam starts asking questions about Cas’ love life. 

“No,” Cas says, squirming slightly as he assesses Sam for his ulterior motive. He’s not looking at Dean, at all, and there’s probably something to be learned from that, but there’s too many possibilities of what. Relationships have been a sore topic between them for over a decade, really. It’s probably just that. “I’m not seeing anyone currently.” 

“Anyone you have your eye on?” Sam presses. 

“I - no.” 

“Dean,” Sam says, turning to him, because his brother is evil and set on making this uncomfortable, apparently. “What about you?” 

“Sam. We’ve had this conversation.” 

“What about that girl you were seeing?” Sam continues. Dog with a freaking bone. 

“Nah,” Dean says, and it’s his turn to steadfastly ignore looking at Cas. “She was just - passing through. Nothing permanent.” 

“Shame,” Sam says, “Hey, what about that guy you went out with last month? The one you were nervous about?” 

And that, Dean did not see coming. 

It occurs to him, suddenly, what Sam is trying to do. 

They talked about this on the drive down here too, and Dean had kind of said that he just wished Cas knew rather than spelling it out for him. Hell, he’d have come out to Cas before anyone else in the whole damn world if he hadn’t thought it would make his feelings so damn obvious that it twisted and soured everything about their friendship. He _wanted_ Cas to know when he was fifteen, it’s just the actual conversation part that scared him shitless. 

Because Cas would know. If Dean told him he liked dudes too, he’d go back to that first conversation and realise that Dean had been angling for a kiss, not a bollocking, and it would have ruined everything. 

Now, not so much. It doesn’t really matter if Cas knows about his feelings back then. It would probably make now easier and he probably wouldn’t think Dean’s just pathetic enough to feel exactly the same as he always did. 

_He can do this._

“What? I wasn’t nervous.” 

“You were flustered. You asked what was on the menu in the coffee shop you’ve been to a dozen times right after he asked you out.” 

“Fuck off,” Dean says. 

“Flustered is usually a good sign.” 

“Oh, whatever, jerk,” Dean says. “Aaron.” He supplies. “We had fun. No second date required.” 

He very resolutely does not look at Cas. 

“Do you _want_ to settle down, Dean?” 

“Do you?” Dean snaps back a little owlishly, “When did you last bring a girlfriend home to meet the parents?” 

“Our parents are dead.” 

“It’s an expression, asshat,” Dean says, and then turns to face Cas, whose chuckling into his beer. “What’s so funny?” 

“My parents are also dead.” 

“Yeah, that’s a hilarious punchline if ever I heard one,” Dean mutters, as he finishes plating up the burgers and nudging them across the table. 

“No, it just occured that I won’t have to do that part,” Cas says, a crease in his forehead. He accepts his burger without breaking his intent focus on the table, and Dean and Sam wait him out. They’d figured this would be kind of a mourning trip of Cas. Chuck was always most tangible and most there at the beach house, even though it was always so busy here that Dean doesn’t really remember them spending a lot of time together here. Still, he was there in the peripheries, in all the places he _wasn’t_ in his regular life: behind the grill, bringing out ice boxes of soda, and later pretending not to know about the beers they bummed from the older kids on the beach. “I suppose I always hated it.” 

“ _That’s_ because you only ever brought someone home to try and get a reaction,” Dean says, “Plus, you have shitty taste in men.” 

“True,” Cas agrees, meeting his eyes as Dean passes down the barbeque sauce, “And I suppose _you_ have better taste in men?” 

“I,” Dean begins, then glances back at his beer and tries to stop himself smiling, because it’s totally fucking inappropriate given everything, “Guess you’ve got me there.” 

Still, Cas knows now, and he gives Dean a soft, curious smile when Dean finally looks up to meet his gaze again. 

Apparently, it’s that fucking simple. 

* 

Sam’s kicking his ass at scrabble when Cas wanders in from outside, hovers a little too close behind Dean’s shoulder and squints at his rack of tiles. He doesn’t really like scrabble, but this place is crying out for a board game upgrade and he couldn’t really be bothered to think of something else they could do. Dean remembers Sam score on the SATS, so it was always a given then he was going to fucking lose, but… it’s nice to just hangout. This trip is pretty much _for_ Cas, but it’s not like Dean’s actually been on a vacation for a few years. He might as well enjoy it. 

“X-U is an accepted word in the scrabble dictionary.” 

“Damnit, Cas, you’re not one of these…. Made up word douchebags too?” 

“XU is a monetary unit in Vietnam. It’s not ‘made up’.” 

“Use it in a sentence,” 

“If you play _XU_ there you can score thirty eight points.” 

“This game is bullcrap,” Dean declares, pushing his tiles away, “Lets play poker.” 

“No way,” Sam says. 

“Just because you lose, Sammy.” 

“Uh, isn’t that your exact objection with _this_?” 

“There’s some people lighting a bonfire on the beach,” Cas says, “Dean -- I wondered if you’d like to go for a walk.” 

Dean’s flushes without really meaning to, and answers ‘sure’ way too damn fast to pull off cool and collected, but… 

A lot has happened since he last had the opportunity to make a fool of himself in front of Castiel freaking Milton. 

They don’t get to the meat of the conversation until they’ve made it to the beach. In fact, they don’t really say a lot of _anything_ until the path gives way to sand, and the quasi-familiar glow of a just-lit bonfire throws shadows and warmth across the beach. 

Castiel stops at one of the other usual old haunts and sits with his back against what they once dubbed ‘the cliff edge’, that’s really just half a foot of solid rock. Dean sits, too, and sort of wishes they thought to bring something to drink to take the edge off this long, long overdue conversation. 

“Perhaps I misjudged the situation,” Cas says. 

“You think,” Dean huffs a laugh, nudging Cas with his knee to signify he’s not mad and, hopefully, bandage up some of the damage from his flinching earlier. That’s just habit and crappy instincts. He’s always _wanted_ to be physically close to Cas. 

“You,” Cas begins, and then breaks his gaze to skim across the beach, “You never corrected me.” 

“You were pretty sure,” Dean says, “All that _I’m sorry for offending your precious hetrosexuality_ shit. I dunno. It never really felt like there was room for me to disagree with you.” 

Cas tilts his head and considers this. 

“When did you know?” 

“Probably about the same time that you did,” Dean says, “You. It kind of solidified some things, in my head, when you came out -- but I knew before that. Just wasn’t exactly ready to do something about it.” 

“When did you do something about it?” 

“What something are we talking about?” 

“Hmm, let’s start with the basics. When did you first kiss a boy?” 

“You know that one,” Dean says, which awards him a crinkled, confused look from Cas, “It was _you_ , jackass. Spin the bottle. On _this beach_ , about five meters that way.” 

“Oh,” Cas says, “Does that count? I thought there were special rules about spin the bottle.” 

That stings a little. That kiss was the only damn thing he thought about for the rest of the summer. 

“Well, I counted it,” Dean says, “But, the other stuff, uh… first hooked up a guy that summer after high school. You were backpacking or some crap. As for that whole coming out shtick, Sam kind of… figured it out about half an hour before _I_ did , but I guess I came _out, out_ like… five or six years ago. And, that’s that.” 

“What prompted you?” Cas asks, drawing circles in the sand. There’s a different question that Cas is asking that Dean can’t quite work out. 

“Well,” Dean says, “A lot of the important people basically already knew after some stuff went down and then… and then Dad died and I couldn’t really remember why I hadn’t done it already.” 

“There wasn’t….” Cas begins, dragging his gaze up to meet Dean’s eye, “There wasn’t somebody important.” 

“No,” Dean says, swallowing around the words, because they’re true in the sense that Cas means them, at least. “Nobody important.” 

They sit and watch the firelight for a while. Dean realises he didn’t actually ask Sam if he minded them ditching him for this talk, and that he’s not actually sure if he cares if he did mind. All of this has been a long time coming and it’s… it’s almost nice to have some of it aired, and Sam probably knew this was coming. He packed plenty of books for this reason. 

“Why did you give me such a hard time with the gay thing, Dean?” Cas asks, and maybe that’s fair. He… Cas gave him kind of a hard time too, but Dean wasn’t exactly a peach. That’s where all of their problems stemmed from, really. Cas always assuming that Dean couldn’t look him dead in the eye because his deepset underlying homophobia, and Dean never correcting him because he could already taste how Cas rejecting him would make him feel. 

“Overcompensating.” 

“You knew I wouldn’t care, Dean.” 

“Not about that,” Dean says, blinking back at the sand. It’s long enough ago that this should be an easy conversation, but it’s an old wound that still hurt even before he carelessly opened it back up again by falling straight back into the depths of _feeling_. Still, there’s been enough time that he can talk about then and plead the fifth about it now, and it’s the only way he sees them moving forward. “You were supposed to say yes.” 

“Yes to what?” 

“When I asked if being into dudes meant being _into me,_ I wanted you to say _yes._.” 

Cas stares at him. He looks goddamn incredible in this lighting; all dramatic lines and steadfast stares. Dean’s likened Cas’ eye colour to the exact shade of the mid-morning sea on those days cloudy enough that Dean probably wasn’t going to catch sunburn since he was about fifteen, but it’s too dark to pick out _that blue_ right now. In the firelight, his looks are sharp and piercing instead of blue and -- fuck, Dean could just _look at him_. 

He likes the new stubble. The way he’s cut his hair these days. The last seven years look good on him.

“You stormed off and hooked up with a girl on the beach.” 

“Was feeling a little freaking rejected, man.” 

“You can’t reject someone if you don’t realise they’re propositioning you.” 

“Well,” Dean says, “Never said I was smooth about it.” 

“You wanted me to like you?” 

“I wanted,” Dean says, then sucks in a breath. “I dunno. Would have been a freaking disaster anyway, way things were with my dad, but — I hated your dumbass boyfriends because you have terrible goddamn taste and because I was jealous and scared that if you worked that out, we wouldn’t be friends anymore.” 

“You’re an imbecile,” Cas says, gaze hot on the side of his face. “Dean. I was in love with you. Why didn’t you just _tell me?_ ” 

Ten points to Sammy. 

“I didn’t know that.” 

“Everyone else did,” Cas says, “Everyone spent our entire childhood pointing it out … it. It was increasingly difficult to hide it from you.” 

“Why did you?” 

“Because, Dean, I didn’t want to be the cliche gay guy in love with his best friend,” Cas says, and Dean can’t really argue with that. He should’ve been the one to say something. It was up to him. 

“Wasn’t exactly hot on being the cliche myself,” Dean says, “I, uh. Was pretty damn convinced I wasn’t good enough for you. Lot of the time I wasn’t all that sure why you gave me the time of day, at all.” 

“You’re the best person I’ve ever known,” Cas says, unblinking and intense enough that Dean has to look away to keep his shit together, and there’s not really anything else he can say to that. It’s not _true_ , but it’s something that Cas actually _believes_ that. 

Eventually, the bonfire burns itself out and they walk back up to the beach house, where Sam has set up poker with old dominos for poker chips and stocked up the fridge with the rest of the beers. It’s a good evening, all in all, even if Dean runs over their conversation again and again for most of the night.

*

The next morning, Cas is waiting for him on the deckchairs out by the pool, without a coffee this time. He accepts the mug that Dean passes him with a warm smile, and they sit and watch the sun climb higher into the sky. Sam comes back from his run and sits on the edge of the pool and talks to Cas about politics and other stuff that Dean doesn’t really give a crap about, but it doesn’t really bother him all that much today.

At least, until Cas nudges him with his knee and tries to talk Dean into heading for the beach for a swim, and Dean’s stomach twists unpleasantly, because he can’t, and in the end Cas goes alone while Sam babysits him through not being taken over by his demons. 


	2. Day 3 & 4

Chuck Shurley got sick ten months ago, then really really sick, then died within six months of his cancer diagnosis. He was supposed to start treatment earlier, but he decided to sack it off to spend one last vacation at the beach house. At the time, only Samandriel and Gabriel were actually talking to the guy, and only Samandriel, his wife and his son actually showed up.

As far as Dean’s aware, Castiel hadn’t actually spoken to Chuck in three or four years. Dean’t not exactly sure of the specifics, because _they_ weren’t actually talking at the time, and as much as Dean kept in contact with Chuck, it was the kind of vague, every-now-and-then-contact. He _liked_ the guy, but Dean would never have claimed he was a good father. 

The Shurley-Milton family dynamic has always been a little complicated. The money and expectation and the name came from the Milton side and, from what Dean pieced together from those midnight conversations about loss and befores, all of that only seemed to get _more_ complicated after their mother died: there was the law firm, the family politics and swathes of drama that Dean never fucking understood. Chuck was the wildcard (the beach house was his old family home; Dean reckons that’s why he always liked it more than the Milton’s house); writer, maverick and basically a genius. 

Cas _loved_ him. Dean remembers the reverent way he used to talk about Chuck, the building excitement in the Milton household whenever he was coming home (from where, Dean never worked out) and the sincere and deep running to desire to please him. Cas idolised him about as much as Dean idolised John Winchester before all that went to hell, and Dean knows what a bitter pill that is to swallow. Dean had the front row ticket to the moment Cas started asking questions and the moment that he lost faith in Chuck all together. Hell, he’s pretty sure that most of the crap decisions that they’ve ever argued about was shit Cas pulled either to piss Chuck off or get his attention, or both, and it’s not like Dean didn’t understand all of it. He was painfully aware of how that all felt, he just didn’t have as many siblings to compete against, or as much power, influence and money to fuel his rebellions. 

Chuck let all of them down. Not even Chuck would deny that. 

And now Cas is marinating in his fathers’ favourite place in the world, four months after they put him in the ground. 

*

“Again?” Sam asks, sat on the corner of the old Milton picnic table (and Dean’s surprised the damn thing can hold up his weight; it’s older than sin), raising an eyebrow at the grill. They’re three days into this vacation and Dean’s yet to cook lunch on anything else. That’s how he remembers all those other summers and Dean figures if it was good enough for Chuck Shurley, then it’s good enough for the three of them. It’s not surprising that Sam disagrees with him. 

“Sammy, burgers and hot dogs are not the same thing.” 

“It’s meat in bread, Dean.” 

“So’s a sandwich, don’t mean it’s the same.” 

“A burger kinda is just a hot sandwich.” 

“What is this crap that you’re talking?” 

“Thank you for cooking,” Cas says mildly, finally setting his book down. He said he’d ‘finish his chapter’ than help, which Dean’s pretty sure is just a way to get out of doing any of the work, because every single time Dean’s glanced over at him (more than he’d admit) his eyes haven’t been moving. Cas seems maudlin today, though, and Dean’s pretty sure if the only reason Cas invited him here was so Dean would cook while he processed Dean would still probably have come. 

“Right,” Dean says, “Thanks Cas. Least someone appreciates me. Listen and learn, Samantha.” 

“Pfft, you know I appreciate you, Dean,” Sam says, “But have you heard of a vegetable?” 

“Ketchup is a vegetable,” Cas says. 

“Man after my own fucking heart.” Sam raises an eyebrow at him and Dean narrowly avoids dropping a sausage on his foot. It’s better to steamroll on with the conversation than let that one linger. “Back me up, Cas. Hot dogs and burgers: fundamentally different experiences.” 

“On a molecular level,” Cas agrees. 

“That doesn’t even make any sense,” Sam says, “But whatever, I’m outvoted. Fine. Let’s talk about something else.” 

“Any suggestions, sasquatch?” 

“I quit my job last week,” Cas says, out of the fucking blue, and Dean sets down the tongs so he doesn’t drop anything else. “We could discuss that.” 

“What?” 

Cas was a little cagey when they talked about work, but Dean chalked that up to it being another sensitive topic between the two of them. In their last big argument, Dean made some pretty choice comments about Cas’ career decisions that went down pretty badly. He hadn’t had any indication that Cas has freaking _quit_ his job, though. He said it was ‘fine’ and moved the conversation along. 

“Last week,” Cas says, forehead creasing, “The law firm at which I am a junior partner at took two months ignoring my leave request, then said it was impossible for me to take a two week vaccation at ‘short notice’ and that I had ‘already had too much time off this year’ after my father died, and I quit.” 

“Good fucking riddance,” Dean says, shutting the lid of the grill and taking a seat. The sausages are gonna take some time to cook, anyway, and… Cas quitting his job is kind of a massive goddamn deal. “They _allowed_ to do that?” 

“I don’t know,” Cas says, “I’m a _lawyer_ and it didn’t occur to me to check.” 

“Do you want to go back?” Sam asks, looking at him with this shrewd expression. It hits Dean, again, that he’s not really sure how much contact Sam and Cas have had in the past few years. He knows it’s been more than _they_ have had, given Sam was the one who told him about Cas getting a divorce and moving back to the state (with a _look_ as he said it, like he was expecting Dean to throw a fucking party). He knows they haven’t actually seen each other, but he’s got no clue how many texts or messages or freaking letters they’ve exchanged, but it must be something, because Dean would never have jumped to Cas actually wanting out of his job. 

For all Dean’s attempts to encourage Cas to think outside the Milton box with college, they never got to a point where Cas was willing to budge on _what_ he would be, just _where_ he would study to become it. 

“No,” Cas says, “I don’t.” 

And _now_ Dean wants to throw a damn party. 

“Then… not a problem, right?” 

“I suppose not,” Cas says, looking at his hands, “I just --- I have nothing to _do_ when we leave here.” 

“What brought this on?” Sam asks, which feels like a pretty dumb question from where Dean’s standing. Then again, Dean struggled to understand what the hell motivated Cas in the damn first place. It didn’t really matter that it was, like, the second thing that Cas told him about himself when they met aged eleven - a solemn ‘ _I’m going to be a corporate lawyer and Milton and Milton_ ’ that had Dean wrinkling his nose in confusion because, okay, that sounded pretty crap - he never quite got round to understanding it. 

“I’ve nearly finished my book,” Cas says, “And it occured to me that after I’ve finished it… I have a lot of time.” 

“Not this conversation,” Sam says, “Wanting _out_?” 

“Sam,” Dean says, “You wanna stow the therapist crap?” 

“No, it’s fine,” Cas says, “Last year, I met with Anna and Gabriel. Here. I… I hadn’t visited for a long time, but they… they promised that it would be just the three of us, and… I wanted to see it. The house,” Cas says. Dean hadn’t really thought about how long it would have been since Cas was last here. He finds it hard to think about the beach house without Cas, as this place is so interlinked with their memories and their history. “I think we missed my father by about two weeks.” 

God, Dean just wants to _hug him_. 

“They were… happy and so sure of their decisions,” Cas frowns at the cover of his book. Last Dean heard, Gabriel got just far enough into the family firm to print business cards before he quit to spend his trust fund doing whatever the hell he wanted. Anna did four or five years before she sacked it off to become an art therapist. Both of those things happened just before they’re big fight, and Dean’s pretty sure that Cas was just about ready to cut both of them off like the rest of his brothers. Apparently, they made up. “I don’t remember the last time I was sure about anything.” A lump of something painful rises at the back of Dean’s throat. Fuck, he’s always been shit at dealing with Cas being unhappy. It’s always tugged at some deep need to just freaking _fix it_ in his gut, which he used to be pretty good at doing, but now he’s not really sure where he would start. 

And, fuck, he can’t even tell himself that the seven year hiatus in the friendship was okay, because Cas was at least happy in the interim, because he’s _not_. 

“My divorce,” Cas says, “I was _very_ sure about that.” 

That was _five goddamn years ago_. 

“Cas,” Dean says, “Get up here.” Cas, obviously, stares at him blankly. “Come on.” 

“What?” 

“Stop being awkward and stand up so I can hug you, asshat,” Dean says. His lungs constrict when Cas does stand up, obviously, and his dumbass pulse picks up when he actually pulls him into a hug, but it’s good, too. Cas clings to him for far too freaking long with his brother stood right there (and probably for the bounds of friendship, but then Cas and those boundaries have always been a little blurred). “You’ll be okay,” Dean says, before he’s properly released him, hands on his arms to keep him looking Dean dead in the eye. “Promise.” 

Taking a step back again is hard. 

“How could you know that?” 

“I know you,” Dean says “You’ll work something out and it’s actually pretty freaking sweet to be unemployed for awhile, except for the money part, and I'm thinking you have that covered.” 

Cas frowns at the mention of money, which makes Dean kinda feel like an ass for bringing it up. That was another pretty solid bone of contention in the last couple of years of their friendship, when the reality that Dean was fucking broke and Cas was the richest person Dean has ever goddamn met (except, probably, any of his older brothers) meant their lives forked in different directions. 

“You’ve has a job since you were sixteen,” Cas says, “I… I can’t imagine you being unemployed.” 

“Well,” Dean says, “I was. For four or five months, before I started working at Bobby’s. Dad died right in the middle, actually.” It wasn’t exactly intentional, but it turns out if you just _stop turning up to work_ they’re not all that keen on giving you a reference. He needed the time, anyway. He needed to heal, and then he needed to grieve, and then, eventually, he needed to work and Bobby gave him a wrench and set him to it. “It's a little disarming at first, but. It was good for me. And, Cas, you’re pretty employable.” 

“In the field of corporate law,” Cas says, “Which I think I have concluded is bad for me.” 

“Not gonna disagree with that.” 

“Dean,” Sam chastises, sending him a look. 

“No, Sammy, I’m not gonna lie and say I’m team corporate douchebag Cas, when I’ve _never_ thought it was good enough for you.” 

“Quitting was impulsive.” 

“Maybe,” Dean says, “But it looks good on you.” 

Cas preens slightly at that, which has Dean’s heart flipping over. And, maybe, _just maybe_ Dean’s not the only one with a case of feelings. 

It could happen, right? Cas _could_ still care about him? 

“I don’t know what _I want_.” 

“Yeah okay,” Dean says, turning back to the grill to open it, “But at least you’re actually trying to _figure that out_ , now, cause from where I’m standing, you haven’t done that in a long time.” 

“Thank you,” Cas says and then Sam starts talking about other areas of law and transferable skills and other crap that Dean doesn’t really have a lot to say about, so he just listens as they spitball ideas about what, exactly, Cas could be, until they’ve finished lunch. 

* 

He gets a text message from Cas, half an hour after they’ve gone to bed, that just says _I miss my father_ and it basically breaks Dean’s heart. 

He finds Cas in the third room he tries, comically bundled up in the top bunk in one of the smallest rooms in the place. It’s something to see a grown ass man in a single bunk bed, and he spends the first half second smiling at him rather than explaining why the hell he’s there. 

“Got your text,” Dean says, “Figured we could talk, maybe.” 

“Okay,” Cas acquiets. Dean nudges the door shut behind him with hip. There’s not really a lot of room for _anything_ else, so he can either sit on the square of floor they used to keep their suitcases or climb onto the bottom bunk. The latter is familiar and actually kind of perfect. So, okay. Bunk beds. 

“We were here… summer after your first year of college.” 

“Yes,” Castiel says, “And I believe the second summer you were here.” 

“Man,” Dean says, absently counting the slats above his head, “That was a long time ago.” 

“Nineteen years.” 

“Fuck off,” Dean says, “No goddamn way I’m that old.” 

“Always so eloquent, Dean.” 

“Who used to decide the room arrangements, anyway?” 

“Our father,” Cas says, something like regret or sadness or both slipping back into his voice, “He always had his reasons, although we weren’t usually privy to them.” 

“Stopping everyone fighting it out is reason enough, you ask me.” 

“Except over _which bed_.” 

“Yeah,” Dean exhales, “I dunno, Cas, twenty goddamn years and I’m still on the bottom bunk.” 

“You did _always_ throw scissors.” 

“Not this time,” 

“I didn’t exactly invite you,” 

“No,” Dean concedes, “Don’t matter. Turns out I like being on the bottom, anyway.” 

Cas chuckles from somewhere above him and Dean smiles widely to himself. They’ve had a lot of conversations this way over the years. Most of them inane, but they covered some of the big stuff too. They talked about school and sex and loss and grief, and sometimes it always seemed easier when Cas couldn’t see what his face was doing. It must have been in _this room_ that Dean told Cas about the fire that killed Mary Winchester and Cas told him about his Mom getting sick, and how nothing had been quite the same since then. 

“Is it,” Dean begins, pulls a thread on the mattress, “Is it worse being here?” 

It’s been a few days, and Cas hasn’t really mentioned Chuck that much. Sometimes Dean catches him sending this long, sorrowful looks at the beach house that do something complicated to his gut, but they haven’t actually talked it out. They’ve talked about some other stuff (and it doesn’t take a detective to work out that Cas quitting his job all of a sudden has _something_ to do with his father), sure, but not… not Chuck. 

“I don’t know,” Cas says, “I’m not very good at this.” 

“This?” 

“Grieving,” 

“Not the kind of thing you get graded on, Cas.” 

“I tried doing the stages, but I wasn’t sure who I was supposed to be angry at and things got existential and more confusing than they were before.” 

“Pretty sure they’re stages, not steps,” Dean says, folding his arms to prop up his head, and listening to Cas breathe somewhere above him. “You just gotta ride the waves as they come, Cas.” 

“As you know, surfing is not a speciality.” The mattress shifts above him, as though Cas is turning over. “I feel closer to him, here, but I don’t know if that’s what I want.” 

“Things were pretty hairy with you guys at the end, huh?” 

“We hadn’t had a conversation in three years,” Cas says, “Until he was sick and I don’t think that counts.” 

“Like spin the bottle,” 

“Exactly,” 

“Cas,” Dean says, “If it meant something to you, it still counts. That goes for spin the bottle too. I’m counting that kiss.” 

“If you want,” Cas says, and it sounds like he might be smiling, but it’s kind of hard to tell. “He said you stayed in contact with him.” 

“Yeah,” Dean exhales, because he was never sure if and when this would come up, or how it would go. “I… shit, Cas, I know the guy wasn’t perfect, but… he was good to me and Sammy. All those summers he took us on. I wanted…. I wanted him to know why I didn’t show at the wedding, cause I didn’t want him to think I was just throwing all his generosity back in his face. So I… yeah. I used to go round there, sometimes.” 

“I’m glad,” 

“Used to think of it as repping you, too.” 

“That was very generous of you.” 

“It wasn’t meant to be,” Dean says, “I just.... missed you.” 

“I missed you too, Dean,” Cas says, and they’re both quiet for a while, until something brilliant and hilarious occurs to him, and then Dean is sniggering to himself in the bottom bunk of the beach house’s smallest bedroom. “What?” 

“Dude, I just realised,” Dean says, “My _brother_ is squeezed into one of these things.” 

Castiel laughs like his own amusement has taken him by surprise and it’s fucking awesome. The sound of it makes Dean’s chest flip over and his own smile widen. He can just smile into the dark just because Cas is awesome and charming and basically perfect, and can’t see him to read into Dean’s beaming any further. 

“Fuck, I gotta get a picture before we leave.” 

“In defence of my room assignments, he was much smaller last time I saw him,” Cas says, his voice curled with warmth. 

That makes sense, though. Sam was invited along in the first place because Cas knew that Dean wouldn’t be able to go without him (Dean was pretty much John Winchester’s entire child care plan from six onwards; if Dean had said he was going to be gone for two weeks and Sam would be his responsibility, he’d have laughed in his face), but that’s not to say that they weren’t actually friends. Sam ended up pretty close with Samandriel and a couple of the other younger Miltons (and, bizarrely, Gabriel), but he always _really_ liked Cas. Hell, he hated Dean’s other friends, but Sam was always pretty much solidly team Castiel. 

Sam didn’t come to the beach house much after Cas went to college (he claimed it was to give Dean and Cas some space to ‘catch up properly’ but mostly Dean thinks he savoured the time without Dean helicopter parenting down his neck) and he couldn’t make it to Chuck’s funeral, so they probably haven’t seen each since Sam was eighteen, a few months short of his gigantic growth spurt. 

“Plus, I’m your favourite Winchester. We’ve got one of those _profound_ bonds.” 

“Guilty as charged,” Cas says. 

“Not that I’m complaining,” Dean says, “But you could have taken the master yourself.” 

“No,” Cas says, “I couldn’t… I couldn’t face it.” 

“I get that,” Dean says, running his tongue over his lip, “He loved you, you know.” 

“I know,” Cas says. 

“Know that doesn’t help when someone’s let you down like that, but it. You need to know that he really loved you.” 

Cas doesn’t respond, and Dean lies there until Cas is breathing deep and heavy and Dean would put money on him being asleep. He slips out of the bottom bunk and immediately steps on one of the creaky tiles before spilling out into the corridor. 

Before this year, Dean had never actually been in the master bedroom. It’s still pretty small, but it has the creaky AC and the double bed, and absolutely nothing to indicate that Chuck Shurley had ever been here. 

* 

The next day, Cas cooks a picnic lunch and they head down to the beach. 

It’s actually pretty good considering Dean’s never seen the guy cook in his life, even if it’s not exactly Dean’s thing. It keeps Sam happy, though, because there are vegetables and green crap in the couscous and he gets to geek out with Cas about health food (Dean’s pretty sure that Cas is only pretending to care about it, or maybe that’s wishful thinking) and it’s nice to listen to them talk now that Dean is sure that he’s still Cas’ favourite. 

Cas tries to persuade Dean that they should all go swimming after Sam declares he’s going, but after he twigs that Dean’s not gonna budge on the matter he hangs back with Dean, and they lie with the beach towels too close together and do a stock take of all the people that they went to high school with. 

Their fingers brush together on the walk back to the beach house and they stay up later than intended drinking scotch by the foot of the pool, hours after Sam has called it a night and gone to bed. Cas keeps _freaking looking at him_ and it kind of makes Dean feel like the motherfucking batman and kind of like he should run away, but all in all it’s a damn good day. 

And then - 

“Dean,” Cas says, suddenly in the doorway of the beach house master bedroom with a manic glint to his eyes. They called it a night half an hour ago, and Dean had been sleepily rehashing the moment that they said goodnight for the last thirty minutes. “Why didn’t you come to my wedding?” 

Dean had figured they’d get to this at some point. Especially after he said he’d told Chuck the reason why. He just didn’t anticipate for that point to come _now_. 

Dean sits up and looks at him for a moment. 

“Sit,” He says, switching on the bedside light and shifting to the right side of the bed. Even if this is the master bedroom, there’s still not room for much else than the double bed, the chest of drawers and the bedside table. If they’re gonna talk this out, there’s not really anywhere else sensible for Cas to go. It’s not necessarily helpful for his processing to have Cas perched next to him on a double bed (shirtless, incidentally, but Dean’s had like eight hours of that today, so he can deal), but… okay. “Lets… okay.” 

Cas sits and looks at him. 

“What… where do you wanna start?” 

“You told me you _’wouldn’t dream of setting foot in a fifty mile radius of your goddamn joke of a wedding’_ , but it didn’t occur to me until the night before that you _might not come_.” Castiel says, which is a helluva way to crash head first into the knitty gritty of it all. 

It’s not really a surprise that Cas can quote him word for word, even if it doesn’t exactly make Dean feel good about anything. He _did_ say he wasn’t gonna go, but he didn’t actually mean it and he’s not surprised that him not actually showing up was still a shock. They didn’t have the kind of friendship where Dean wouldn’t come through when it was important. They’d always stow their crap for the big stuff. He just _said it_ because he was pissed off and upset and trying to get through to him. He said a lot _worse_ crap than that and he’s pretty sure that Cas will remember all of those things, too. 

Cas was that cold, calculated, righteous version of himself that Dean’s never been able to get through to. 

“You’d made it very clear you thought I was making a mistake -” 

“ - a _mistake_ is putting it lightly, Cas,” Dean says, a little of that years old anger and disappointment flaring up in his gut, even though having this conversation again is one of the last things that Dean wants to do. “A mistake is a one night stand. A _mistake_ is hitting a lampost in a parking lot. It’s not ---” 

“ - I’m not defending my actions, Dean,” Cas says, “I’m aware it was a disproportionate reaction to the problem.” 

That is a goddamn understatement. 

Of course, because it’s _Cas_ there was always some higher moral cause, and some of it was tangled up in the pharmaceutical company that screwed up the medication that his Mom used to take and Milton & Milton taking them on as a client, and Dean never had a problem understanding why that was an emotive goddamn issue. He _got_ the reason why Cas was hellbent on making the latest lawsuits stick. That wasn’t the issue. 

It’s just, as it turns out, Castiel had a trust fund that the Milton side of the family set up just before his Mom died, with access to it in he was ‘independent’. In Milton’s terms, that meant either turning twenty five, or getting married. 

And Dean probably would have had a hard time with the concept, anyway, because he’d always been insecure about freaking money, but Cas goddamn _springing it on him_ that one of the primary motivators for him getting married was to get access to the damn thing (a year early; he had one fucking year to wait), to bankroll the litigation against his brother’s goddamn lawfirm at his dumbass stag do just… 

He didn’t handle it well. He’d still maintain that nothing he said was unreasonable, but the whole conversation spiralled way out of control the second Cas dropped _that_ bombshell. 

“It wasn’t the only thing on my mind, Dean,” Cas says, shoulders slumping. They’re sitting close enough that they brush together, and the warmth bleeds through Dean’s t-shirt and to his whole body. “Yes, the _marriage_ aspect had several… added bonuses of convenience, but I --- I did think we were good partners.” 

“Yeah, business partners.” 

“The sex was good.” 

He didn’t need that fucking visual. Sonuvabitch. 

“Cas.” 

“It seemed unlikely that I would ever have anything better,” Cas says, and he’s back to not looking at him again, which probably means that’s in someway about Dean. “We’d been together for several years and, at the time, it seemed very important to be able to highlight some of the… decisions that Raphael had been making as head of the firm. I --- I wanted to prove myself and it didn’t feel like a decision that would harm anyone but myself.” 

“Yeah,” Dean says, “I know. I… damnit, Cas, I _knew_ all of that stuff.” 

“You were very angry at me.” 

“I,” Dean begins, “I was upset. It felt like one goddamn second I knew who you were, and the next you were acting like freaking _Michael and Lucifer_ , and it threw me.” 

“We had… drifted apart.” 

That’s one way of putting it. 

“Yeah.” 

“If it helps,” Cas says, “After our argument, I made sure I had an ironclad prenup. I did listen to your misgivings.” 

“It doesn’t,” Dean says, mouth twisting into a half smile. “Although I’m guessing it helped _you_.” 

“Yes,” Cas says, “Considerably.” 

“Look,” Dean says, “I’m not gonna appologise for any of the shit I said in that fight, because I stand by calling you out --- but there was a lot of selfish reasons for some of that crap too, and that was my problem.” Cas arches an eyebrow at him. “Cas, the thought of you marrying _anyone_ made me want to put my fist through a wall, let alone some jackass like Crowley. I didn’t exactly handle my own feelings like a fucking adult, either, but. It was a fucking shitshow.” 

“And that was it?” Cas asks, eyes serious and unrelenting, “You couldn’t abide by my behaviour and you were… jealous,” Cas continues, tasting the word ‘jealous’ like he still doesn’t believe it’s real. “So you didn’t come?” 

“No,” Dean says, running a hand over his face, “No, I was gonna come anyway. Mostly as a last ditch effort to try and make you see some sense but, dammit. I should’ve been there. Even if I _couldn’t talk you out of it_ and you still fucked up your life, you should’ve --- I should’ve been there, and I… I am really goddamn sorry about that, Cas.” 

“What stopped you?” Cas asks. Dean swallows and looks down at his hands. “Dean, I have needed to know this for _years_. I.... I needed you to be there, and you weren’t. For some reason you told my father, but you haven’t told me.” 

He knew he’d need to talk about this when he came down here. 

He and Sam spoke about it on the journey, and he sort of helped Dean come to the conclusion that he could… he could get out of sharing this part. He could fob off the question or blame it on something else, but that’s the song they’ve been singing for a long time. Half truths and concealment and hiding. All it’s ever done is screw them over. 

“I know,” Dean exhales, “Fuck, Cas, I know, I just… We should’ve bought the whisky up here.” 

“Dean,” 

“Just give me a minute,” Dean says, and Cas quiets, “When you, uh… At the time, I was in a pretty fucked up, abusive relationship with this guy who used to be my loan shark. He, it — it was physically abusive, and,” Dean says, the words cloying up in his throat even though he’s said them out loud enough damn times. Mostly, about fifty minutes before paying whoever it was that was listening to him this time. “It took me a long time to get out.” 

“You,” Cas begins, blinks, refocuses, “Dean.” 

Clearly, that’s not what he was expecting Dean to say. “I, uh, it’s not like I didn’t know what I was getting into,” Dean says, because it’s not fair not to acknowledge that. That’s why the damage he did had his hooks in so deep: because Dean fucking knew what he was signing up for. “Didn’t owe him money at that point, but I — had enough first hand experience to know he wasn’t exactly a stand up citizen, but… I had shitty self esteem, and a self destructive streak and I thought I had it under control. And in the end it… escalated.” 

Cas looks sadder than Dean’s ever seen him in his life. It’s not pity, exactly, but it’s harrowing and guilt filled, and it sours in Dean’s stomach and kind of makes him want to scream. Still, he’s learnt that there’s no good way for someone to react to this stuff and that you can’t expect someone to handle it perfectly. Hell, Dean certainly fucking didn’t. 

“It,” Dean says, through the lump in the back of his throat, “It got… bad.” It’s easier to shuck up his shirt than actually explain, and it’s easier for Cas to know rather than to fumble around this tentatively rebuilt friendship trying to avoid any sore spots. He doesn’t visibly react this time, which means he’s got his head into his _learning intense shitty things_ mode again. “They, uh,” Dean says, gesturing to the scars closest to his hip; the faint white lines that almost still spell the word ‘worthless’ (Alistair was never fucking subtle about the points he was making), “Some motel cleaner found me passed out with this one still fresh. She called an ambulance, who called Sammy and the police.” Dean says, as Cas reaches forward and brushes his knuckles against the flesh. Dean exhales and, hell, if he’s baring it all he might as well bare it fucking all, so he sits up enough to pull the rest of his shirt off. 

It’s not actually that bad, unless you look close. 

Dean used to think scars were pretty fucking bad ass when they were kids, but they were _adventure scars_ and these are… these are pretty much a manifestation off how all Dean’s worst insecurities bit him in the ass. Still, he’s accepted them, for the large part. 

He shuts his eyes for a moment as Cas traces out the first scar, trying to map out what’s left of the letters after they healed. He stops short before he gets to the end, when he works it out, which is good. He doesn’t really want the phantom touch of Cas tracing the word _worthless_ on his side for the rest of his life. 

And then he moves on, upwards, fingers skimming up his side, and pause at a tiny scar that twists at the edge of his rib cage. 

“That was the first,” Dean says, “He, uh. He hit me some before any of _this_ started, but Sammy was beginning to see through the crap I said about getting into fights. He said that we had to be more _careful_ and then,” Dean says, jaw clenched, because he hates this bit; hates that he bought any of his manipulative bullshit, “That I didn’t deserve Sam and that we should… keep him out of things. Mostly, he was so far in my fucking head that I wasn’t talking much to anyone else.” 

“Like me,” Cas says, his expression carved into neutral. That’s easier to handle. 

“Yeah, that includes you,” Dean says. If any of this happened a few years before, Alistair would have needed to pull him away from Cas with precision and cruelty, just like with Sam. Some of the damage had already been done with the distance of college and the distance Dean forced between them by not coming out and trying to get over him. It was terrifyingly easy to keep Cas out. “We’d been… it had been about nine months when you got married. It… it wasn’t that bad then, but. The day of your wedding, I had a black eye and a fractured jaw.” Dean says. 

There’s a noise at the back of Cas’ throat that indicates Cas doesn’t like his use of the words _wasn’t that bad_. 

“I missed my flight,” Dean says, “He was resetting my damn jaw. He, obviously, wasn’t all that keen on hospitals, so he insisted on doing it and I missed my damn flight. I… I could’ve driven.” 

“Dean.” 

“And I was gonna,” Dean says, the words a little raw at the back of his throat. “I wanted to be at your stupid fucked up wedding. I got in the damn car, but, I knew you’d… you’d have questions, and I couldn’t. I… I couldn’t lie to you, and I couldn’t stand to have another fucking fight with you, and I… damnit, Cas, I was completely in love with you, and I couldn’t stand there and watch you get married to some asshole with my face fucked up by the guy I was sleeping with. It was too goddamn hard. I know I let you down. I know I should have fucking dealt with it instead of making it about me, but I —” 

Cas throws his arms around Dean’s neck and holds him. He’s warm and solid and smells like sea salt and sunblock, just like the damn beach house. His thumb brushes against the nape of Dean’s neck, and it’s perfect. Cas is goddamn perfect and it feels like, maybe, he’s forgiven. 

(It’s one of the last, stubborn things that Dean’s never quite been able to forgive himself for, because it _cost so much_. If he’d just forced himself into that fucking car and driven, he wouldn’t have let Castiel down like that. He would have been there. There wouldn’t have been seven years of silence and they wouldn’t be here, having to rebuild all of it. It cost way, way too much for Dean to forgive himself for it). 

“I wish you’d come,” Cas says, pulling away enough to look him dead in the eye, “Only because I wouldn’t have believed whatever lie you told me, and I would have sat there and peeled the truth out of you, and I would have postponed my damnable wedding until I had got you out. Dean. If you had told me _any_ of this —” 

“I know,” Dean says, “But we weren’t talking that much, and… he gaslighted me pretty hard.” 

“That’s not blame,” Cas says, “None of this is your fault.” 

“Some of it is,” Dean says, “No, Cas, it’s okay. I don’t mean — I don’t mean that I _deserved_ it, or that I wasn’t manipulated, or that he wasn’t… basically a psychopath, but I’ve had five years and a lot of fucking therapy to work out that I made some pretty dumb decisions with my eyes wide open because I was just miserable enough to wanna set my world on fire. If you hit the self destruct button, you can’t expect nothing to blow up in your face.” 

“I have learnt this,” Cas says, and that basically answers the rest of Dean’s questions about Cas’ short lived marriage. “Dean, I’m…” 

“I know,” Dean says, “It’s. I’m okay now, mostly.” 

“You’re very wise and well adjusted, Dean.” 

“First time anyone’s accused me of that,” Dean smiles (a bitter thing, but it’s a smile nevertheless), and then he realises that they’re still kind of holding each other. He doesn’t really want Cas to let him go, because Cas might just be holding him together. _Cas might just have forgiven him_.

“What about this scar?” Cas says, hands dropping down from where he held him in their hug, to brush over his arm instead. He knows Cas knows this one, but maybe that’s what they’re doing now. Dean rearranges the pillows behind his head and slides down the bed slightly. 

“That one,” Dean says, tugging on Cas’ arm to pull him next to him, “Is from some shit eating ass called Gabriel daring me to jump off ‘the cliff edge’ with my eyes closed.” 

Cas reaches out and runs his index finger over the tiny indent on Dean’s forehead that you can only see if you look close. 

“This one,” 

“That was when I fell face freaking first on the beach house porch steps, and you laughed so damn hard you nearly wet yourself.” 

“It was very funny,” Cas says. His voice is velvet warm and deep, and would probably do things to him if they hadn’t just talked about some of the worst things that have ever happened to him. “Dean,” Cas says, and he’s kind of expecting some second attempt at Cas to say how sorry he is, or something else deep and painful and that kind of hurts to digest, but instead Cas settles on the pillows next to him and says “Your brother has nothing on you” and that’s somehow, bizarrely, the most reassuring thing Cas could have said. 


	3. Day 5

They fell asleep looking at each other and Dean wakes with a crick in his neck and an otherwise empty bed. The other half of the bed is still warm and still smells like Cas, which is basically the greatest thing that’s happened to him in a long time. It’s the best night of sleep he’s had since he got here, but he’s not going to press too hard on that bruise.

They were talking, and they fell asleep. There’s probably nothing more to it than that.

Still, he skips the shirt and heads down to the kitchen in just his pyjama bottoms. Now Cas knows, he can loosen up a little bit: sleep with his shirt off, sunbathe, swim. 

Dean’s hoping that Cas will be in the kitchen when he gets there just because he wants to see him, but he’s not and the door out onto the porch is still locked, which means he’s not out by the pool either. He makes enough coffee for two, anyway, battling out with the ancient coffee pot that definitely hates him feeling kind of… at peace.

It went okay. Not perfect, but okay. The list of things they’re tiptoeing around is shrinking all the time and it looks a lot like, by the time the leave this place, they’ll be back on a solid footing. He’ll have _Cas back_ and that’s…. That’s not something he ever really dreamed he’d get.

By the time Cas emerges from upstairs, freshly showered and fucking gorgeous, Dean’s sat at the tiny kitchen table trying to work the crick out of his neck with his thumb. 

“Hello, Dean.” 

“Morning Sunshine.” Dean says, because he’s a goddamn dumbass. Cas smiles at him though, so it’s probably fine.

“Are you okay?” 

“Oh, yeah,” Dean says, dropping his hand from his neck, “Slept funny. There’s coffee in the pot.” 

“Thank you,” Cas says, meandering across the kitchen and filling up his mug. Dean looks back at his coffee, suddenly shit out of crap to say. Should he… not acknowledge it at all? Say _thanks_ for not completely freaking out? Make some dumbass joke?

And then Cas is stood right behind him, hands smoothing over Dean’s shoulder, seeking out the knot of tensed up muscle… and _holy shit_ Cas has nice hands. Cas has nice hands and is giving him a goddamn shoulder rub in the beach house kitchen. 

“Thank you for talking to me last night.”

Cas is close enough behind him that Dean can _feel_ him say the words.

“Uh, no problem.”

“I wouldn’t have pressed the issue if I knew.”

“I know,” Dean says, “But you didn’t. I…. did think about calling you, after I got out, trying to explain. But, everything was a little… raw.” 

“Of course,” Cas says, “You didn’t owe me anything.”

“Yeah, I did,” Dean says, “I do. I… I _want_ to owe you stuff.” 

“Good,” Cas says, voice warm with a smile that Dean can’t see from this angle, that he desperately wants to. If he moves, though, Cas might stop _touching him_ and he’s not sure which of the two things he wants more. Both. Definitely more of both. “That’s Sam,” Cas says, at the sound of the front door. He steps back and heads to the coffee pot and Dean decides that hates his snot nosed little brother and his bad timing and his early morning running habits.

“Morning,” Sam says. He’s definitely clocked the fact that Dean isn’t wearing a shirt for the first time since he’s gotten to the place which means they’re probably going to have ‘a talk’ the next time they’re alone, which is fine. “It’s about to start raining. Thanks, Cas,” He finishes, taking the coffee. 

“The weather forecast said nothing of rain.”

“It feels like it’s gonna rain,” Sam shrugs, “We worked out breakfast, yet?” 

“You’re not subtle, Sam,” Dean says, “If you want me to cook you breakfast, just ask.”

“You’re so good at it,” Sam shrugs.

“I’m not making you some frouffy egg white shit. You get straight up omelette, or nothing.” 

“Thanks, Dean,” Sam says, sitting down opposite him with a smile, “You guys sleep well?” There’s an edge to that smile like Sam’s feeling superior and smug, which probably means he knows something, although Dean doesn’t really know _how_. Dean just grunts in response and stands up to find the eggs. 

“Dean has done something to his neck,” Cas says, “But I slept very well.”

Cas slept well in _Dean’s bed_. 

“Awh, Cas, you don’t wanna start being a translator for Dean’s non verbal communication . That’s a full time job, right there.”

“I am in need of employment.”

“You’re both fucking comedians,” Dean throws back, “What’s the plan if it rains?”

“The weather forecast --”

“ -- Cas, I said ‘if’. I’m sure your precious weather forecast -” 

“ - the science of meteorology is fascinating and very accurate, Dean, and -” 

“How the hell did you ever get laid?” Dean asks, even though he doesn’t really mean it. He’d be all over that in a heartbeat. Cas has always been an adorable little weirdo and the most attractive person Dean’s ever met. Dean’s not really sure _how_ he pulls it off, but he does. 

“My understanding is that people talk about the weather a lot, particularly in awkward situations. Knowledge of meteorology should be a social lubricant and aid the process of ‘getting laid’. “

“Ah man,” Dean says, “Don’t ever change, Cas.”

“Okay.” 

“This is like going back in time,” Sam says, “The Dean and Cas show; back on air.”

“Yep,” Dean says, “Just need you to start crying over your homework and it’s two thousand and two.” 

“Because _that_ happened.”

“Oh I remember, bitch.” 

“Jerk.”

“The weather channel says it might rain tomorrow, but there is zero percent chance of rain today.” Cas says, squinting at his phone. Dean catches Sam’s eye and tries not to smile. Fuck, Cas is cute, and today is actually sort of great.

“I’ll take it you want the works on your omelette, Cas,” Dean says, chopping up tomatoes and onion and adding them to the pan. 

“Yes,” Cas agrees, “Accuweather says that there is a five percent chance of rain this afternoon.” Sam rolls his eyes at the ceiling and stands up to help Dean with the rest of the cooking. 

Five minutes after they’ve finished breakfast, the thunder starts.

Cas looks at from his phone (the sixth weather app he’s tried) and frowns. 

“I’ll go bring everything inside.” 

“So,” Sam says, as they watch Cas hurry out the back door, “You talked.” 

“Yep.” Dean returns, taking their plates and rinsing them in the sink. Sam is well meaning and intrusive and usually right, so he might as well entertain this conversation. 

“And?”

“And what?” 

“And, Dean,” Sam says, bringing the rest of the things over, “I saw him come out of your room this morning.” 

That explains the reason why Sam looked so damn smug, at least, even if he’s got the wrong end of the stick. 

“He came in there to talk and we fell asleep, Sammy.” 

“And that’s it?” 

“That’s it,” Dean says, swallowing back the words _but maybe something could happen_ , because they feel so tentative that speaking out loud might shatter them somehow. He’s not sure. Maybe he’s reading into things too much.

And, anyway, it’s not exactly good timing. Cas is having some premature mid-life crisis with his quitting his job and rattling around in his father’s old house, not talking about him. They’re just rebuilding something. 

He’s never been willing to accept the risk that angling for something more with Cas might just leave him with less. 

“How are you feeling?” Sam asks.

“Uh,” Dean begins, “Good, actually. He --- pretty sure he’s not mad at me about the wedding thing anymore.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Sam says.

Sam has always been fiercely on Team _Dean is completely blameless and should be forgiven for everything even remotely adjacent to Alistair_ while Dean tends to be a little more reticent about it. Then again, Sam’s the one who got the call from the hospital and had to baby Dean through the panic attacks, untangling the mess in his head and the legal stuff that followed. Dean would probably be exactly the same if their roles were reversed, but sometimes it’s also a little annoying. He made some bad choices _before_ he was manipulated, and he’s learnt how to own that without torturing himself over it. 

Still, there’s something in Sam’s voice that makes it pretty clear he’s talking about more than that.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That he’s in love with you and was looking for a reason to forgive you anyway, never mind the fact that no decent human would hold _that_ against you.”

“You think?”

“That Cas is in love with you?” Sam asks, “Yes, Dean. I thought I’d made that pretty clear.”

“He said,” Dean says, glancing at the door to make sure that Cas isn’t about to come in, “He said he used to be in love with me. Before.”

“Least you’ve progressed from pretending you’ve _never_ had feelings for each other, I guess,” Sam says, “At this rate, you might get together right before you both retire.”

“You really think?” Dean asks, squaring his jaw as he looks back at his little brother. Sam has always, always come through for him. He and Bobby pieced him back together after Alistair. Sam has been endless patient and every inch the annoying kid brother, and Dean trusts his judgement about this. Sam’s good at reading people. He knows Cas pretty well and he knows Dean’s blindspots like the back of his hands. 

If he’s going to listen to anyone’s opinion on this, it’s going to be Sam. 

“Yes,” Sam says, “I really do, Dean.” 

The door out to the porch flies open. Cas is framed in the doorway, drenched from head to toe, his usual bed head flattened against his skull. He’s all dramatic and six kinds of fucking sexy, and if Dean wasn’t in love with him already this might just be the moment. 

“Sam,” Cas exhales, “You may have been right about the rain.”

* 

There’s a sitting room that sprawls off the kitchen that they only ever used on rainy days back in those summers, and they haven’t been in this trip either. Now, Dean comes down after his shower to find that Sam’s set up the place with snacks and taken residence on the battered old armchair with his long, gangly legs and his phone on his lap. 

“Didn’t there used to be another sofa?” Dean says, eyeing up the tiny two seater that he both does and doesn’t want to try and share with Cas for their movie marathon day. Frankly, it’s a goddamn miracle that the rest of the three piece suite is still here, given it was old and sagging a decade ago, and spent a lot of time groaning under the weight of a lot more kids than it was designed for. 

“Samandriel’s son put his foot through it two years ago,” Cas says, sitting down on the left hand side. He’s gotten dressed again, but his hair is still wet and ridiculous and begging for Dean to run his fingers through it. “What are our movie options?”

“Uh,” Sam says, “There’s a couple of Disney princess movies, four out of six Star War movies, one of the sequels to Cheaper by the Dozen and, uh, a mystery cassette that has something cryptic written on it.”

“That damn bee documentary,” Dean says, “Holy crap. I can’t believe that still exists.” Cas blinks. “ _Six times_ you made me watch that documentary,” Dean says, “In one summer.” 

“Oh yeah,” Sam says, “That was a wet summer. You wanna watch that, Cas?”

“No,” Cas says, frowning. He looks sad, all of a sudden, and Dean’s stomach clenches. Fuck, he hates it when Cas is sad. 

“Well, I vote Star Wars,” 

“Shocking,”

“That work for you, Cas?”

“Yes,” Cas says, “If the machine still works.” 

It’s a fair comment. The TV is a clunky, box thing that only plays VHS and probably should have been retired a long while back. The fact that _nothing_ about this place has been updated since Dean was twelve is both charming and concerning. 

“It’ll work,”

“It’s older than Sam,” Cas says, “We’ll see.”

“It’ll work,” Dean says, slumping onto the sofa with the remote at hand and gesturing that Sam should get up to put the tape in. He rolls his eyes but concedes, and winds up sat on the floor to wind it back to the beginning.

“Bet that was Gabriel,” Dean says, “Never rewound the damn tapes.” 

They only have episode one, three, four and six, so they opt so start to go chronologically rather than by release date, and halfway through the second movie Dean stretches his arm across the back of the sofa mostly for somewhere to _put_ it. He’s been concentrating really hard on _not_ touching Cas too much just in case he’s violating some kind of rule that breaks everything and as a result his shoulders are stiff and his back freaking hurts; at least with his arm at the back of the sofa he can relax. 

It’s only five minutes after that when Cas tucks himself under Dean’s arm and rests his head on his shoulder and that’s… well. Good. Pretty damn awesome. 

And, fuck it. 

Dean exhales and drops a hand to his shoulder to pull him in closer. 

He catches Sam smirking at them a couple of times, but it’s kind of hard to give a shit. 

* 

“Looks like the rain’s stopped,” Dean says, a little after they’ve finished their chilli and nachos dinner (Sam cooked, for once) and they’ve started talking about whether they should start the final movie. Dean’s a little saturated from too much Star Wars and too much time inside, but he’s pretty sure has a policy against saying no to anything that involves Castiel cosying up to him on the sofa. Plus, he didn’t know that he _could_ overdose on freaking Star Wars. it all feels very unlikely, but after the last four days of spending basically the whole day outside he feels a little… restless. “Maybe we should go for a walk.” 

“Okay,” Cas says, standing up and stretching. The arch of his back as goddamn everything, which probably means Dean needs to get a life. “To the beach?” 

“Yeah.Actually, lets --- go swim,” Dean says. Cas has tried to talk him into it enough times and he actually _wanted_ to go, but the right way for Cas to find out about his emotional baggage wasn’t through seeing him topless. Now, he’s got a genuine freaking excuse for seeing Cas all sea-drenched and half naked. 

“That sounds nice,” Cas says, “I always like the sea after it rained.” 

“Awesome,” Dean says, “I’ll grab some towels. Get changed. Hey, you should get some beers or somethin’. Make it a freakin’ party,” Dean says, and then, “Sam, uh. You coming?” 

“Nah,” Sam says, “I’ve got some work to do, anyway.” 

He’d argue that Sam is supposed to be on vacation, but spending time with Cas is kind of addictive, and he doesn’t actually want him to come, so he just claps him on the shoulder and disappears upstairs to get the towels. He’ll save the nagging for later (although, Dean’s relatively sure that Sam’s partially just using work as an excuse to give them time to be alone: he really owes Sam a goddamn fruit basket). 

When they get down to the beach, Cas lays their towels down by ‘the cliff edge’ rather than heading to the water. 

Cas has a point about the beach right after rain. 

Back when they were kids, they’d all rush out the second the rain stopped. A lot of that was because there was hardly enough room for all of them to fit inside for a whole day, and the whole house was bursting at the seams with people. They’d fill up the sitting room and the kitchen table and, maybe, a couple of them would hide out in the rooms for a little space, but it was confining and plain out _boring_ compared to the beach. So, after the rain stopped they’d all race down to the sea, running down the path, kicking their shoes off when they got to the sand and straight into the water, fully dressed. 

It’s late enough that no one would make the effort to come down to the beach now, which means that they’ve got the stretch of sand and sea all to themselves. Dean’s never seen it this quiet (has usually shared the beach with at least six other Miltons) and it feels a little.. Strange as he lays his towel down next to him, and pulls off his shirt to use it as a pillow. Cas tracks the movement closely (and Dean tries not to feel too good about that) and echoes his movements, until he’s laid out next to him on the sand. 

“Dean,” Cas says, “After you left, what happened to him?” 

Not really where he wanted the conversation to go, but okay. 

It figures, that Cas has more questions that he’s only getting to now. 

“Sam happened to him,” Dean says, “He, he hadn’t finished law school yet, but he — he sorted a lot of it out. Assault, several accounts. The police took pictures when I was in hospital which is actually fucking humiliating, but it made the case solid. Alistair was involved in some pretty sketchy stuff and, uh, I guess my hands weren’t exactly clean , so I got immunity for that, and there were some other charges that they bought him up on. I don’t know. Pretty much as soon as Sam told me he was going to prison and I didn’t have to speak in court anymore I stopped paying attention.” 

“That’s very reasonable,'' Cas says. 

“I wasn’t,” Dean says, “I wasn’t exactly doing very well, right after, but uh.... I have a restraining order too. Sam’s idea.” 

“But you’re — you’re safe.” 

“Yeah,” Dean breathes, “Didn’t feel like it at first, but I’m safe.” 

“You stayed with Sam?” 

“Bobby,” Dean says, “Six months, and I was working there the last couple. Sam wanted to duck out of college for a semester, but I wasn’t having it, and… Bobby was great.” 

“That’s when you were unemployed.” 

“Yep”, Dean says, “Wasn’t exactly a model employee when I was with Alistair, so.” 

“Alistair,” Cas repeats, sounding the word out with obvious disdain. “I… I think I despise him more than anyone I have ever met.” 

“You met”, Dean says, looking up at the sky. It’s dusk and he’s always loved watching the day bleed into night at the beach, but it’s just not that interesting compared to Cas. “You remember that time you visited out of the blue and turned up at my apartment wanting to talk about, I don’t know, some political bullshit. I can’t even remember, but you just turned up at my door and — He was there. Ten seconds before I answered the goddamn door I was butt naked. This was, uh, before things got… bad. When we were just sleeping together.” 

Cas looks at him for a few long moments. 

“ _Him?_ ” Cas asks, brow furrowed and eyebrows raised. “Dean.” 

“Honestly, I was a little fucking surprised you didn’t clock me. Pretty sure my jeans were still undone.” 

“If I envisioned you with a man,” Cas says, “It would not have been someone anything like Alistair.” 

“Okay,” Dean says, with the bravery of the two beers he had with dinner and the conversation he had with Sam in the kitchen this morning. “Who’d you see me with?” 

(Obviously, Cas is supposed to say ‘me’.) 

Cas drags his gaze down Dean’s body like he’s goddamn absorbing him. It’s intent enough that Dean wants to move and shake it off, but he stays still and looks him dead in the eye. 

“Someone ... kind and intelligent and attractive.” 

“It’s weirding me out that so far you’ve used all these words to describe my brother.” 

“Someone who appreciates your humor,” Cas continues, undeterred. “Who values your commitment to loyalty and the complicated, precious relationship with your brother. Who is prepared to tell you when you’re being an assbut and who is unafraid to give you sincere compliments even if they know you will deflect them. Someone who admires your goodness and your sense of fun in equal measures.” Dean’s heart is pumping double time and it’s a little hard to deny any of Sam’s theories when Cas is _looking at him like that._ “He would probably also like Star Wars and understand that cups of coffee on a morning are a sign of affection.” 

“Cas,” Dean breathes, mangling the word on the way out of his throat. He’s said it so many times before, but now it feels more important. More real than the rest of the world. “What happened with your divorce?” 

“I — I changed my mind,” Cas says, not looking away, “After the first class action suit, Raphael stepped down. Bartholemew came to see me. He said they hadn’t known. That they didn’t… they didn’t want to continue on this path. I went to him and said I didn’t want to do it anymore. I didn’t want to fund the rest of the law suits or go toe to toe with my family and — he didn’t understand, and. I always knew he was using me, but it suddenly became clear that it wasn’t mutually beneficial anymore.” 

“That’s so,” Dean begins. “That’s so cold, Cas. That’s not you.” 

“Dean,” Cas says, “It’s only you who thinks that.” 

“Cas. Come on. You’re not some corporate hammer. You’re a real life fucking person with emotions and feelings. You — that _other_ you is the fake one. You were always so, so much better than them. I’m so freaking pleased you’ve quit.” 

“Samandriel says I had too much heart to be a good lawyer.” 

“That’s a good thing,” Dean says, “That’s always been a good thing. I just… I can’t believe you ever thought that life was good enough for you.” 

“I believed that was as good as I’d get.” 

“I always thought I was the one with the shitty self esteem,” Dean says, “But, I get it. That’s kinda what I thought. That Alistair and his bullshit was probably what I deserved and about what I had coming. At first, anyway, before it got — really bad.” 

Cas makes an unhappy noise at the back of his throat. 

“You _know_ that you’re worth more than some ass like Crowley now, right?” Dean asks. 

“I suppose,” Cas says, “I. Mostly I’ve avoided dating altogether. Clearly, I am bad at it.” 

“I feel that,” Dean says, “I haven’t exactly dated. Apparently I have really shitty taste, so.” 

“Why did you borrow money from him?” 

Dean exhales. 

“Sam,” Dean says, “He was going to college, and he needed the money to get there and all that crap before the financial aid kicked in.” 

“You should have come to me.” 

“No, I shouldn’t,” Dean says, “Cas, you were already at your ivy league college with your big bright future, while I’m workin’ two jobs to make rent on a studio in the crap part of town. You were already so much better than me, without me owing you money. It would’ve rotted through everything.” 

“That day I turned up at your apartment,” Cas says, “I was going to tell you how I felt, but I backed out.” 

“Huh,” Dean says. Honestly, that makes a lot more sense than Cas suddenly needing to get his view on the election, or bees, or something else that Dean can’t really remember. He was distracted enough about the fact that Cas and Alistair had been in the same room to concentrate on anything else. He had _some_ survival instincts and wanted, as much as possible, for Alistair not to know just how damn important Cas was to him. He wanted them separate. He wanted them to never share the same freaking oxygen, because he wasn’t ignorant to the fact that Alistair was dangerous. Then there was the Cas-doesn’t-know-I-like-men aspect, but he didn’t really care about that by that point. Cas was engaged, or at least had been dating that douchebag for long enough that it felt like it was going to stick. “Really fucking wish you hadn’t.” 

“Dean,” Cas says, “I don’t know what I’m doing with my life.” 

“Does _anyone?_ ” 

“Before I saw you at the funeral, I felt like I was free falling,” Cas says, “It… everything was unraveling. I — I was doubting my decisions, my job, leaving. If I had a right to be at his funeral when I was such a disappointing son, and then — you were there. You were my _person_ and you were there. I know you came for my father, but I -” 

“Cas,” Dean interjects, “I came for you.” 

Cas exhales sharply. 

“Everything felt better when I saw you,” Cas says, “That I hadn’t ruined everything, or you wouldn’t be there, but — Dean, there were things happening in your life that I didn’t know about. I should have _known._ I should have _seen._ ” 

“Cas,” Dean says, “I was hiding some of this stuff from Sam and he was staying with me for half the damn summer. You — you couldn’t have known.” 

“This is more than that. You needed money and you didn’t tell me,” Cas says, “You knew you were bisexual and didn’t tell me. You had this insane belief that you weren’t good enough for me and you didn’t tell me. I didn’t _ask_ you why you didn’t come to my wedding.” 

“I told you in a fight that I wasn’t gonna come,” Dean says, “You thought you knew why.” 

“You were _hurt_.” 

“It was a black eye, Cas, I was okay.” 

“That’s not what I meant,” Cas says, “I mean that _you were in pain_.” 

“You think I feel good about you thinkin’ your marriage convenience was as good as life was gonna give you?” Dean asks, “You weren’t exactly doing well.” 

“I — I should have called you when I realised that you were right, about my marriage.” 

“I should’ve called you, period,” Dean says. Cas is shaking and emotional and Dean’s not really sure how any of this derailed. “Cas. We both made some pretty crappy decisions. We both hurt each other. The important goddamn bit is that we’re sat on this damn beach trying to fix this.” 

“I want things to be like they were before I went to college.” 

“Well, I don’t,” Dean says, “I think we can do better than that, Cas.” Cas stares at him, a little unhappy and a lot solemn. “ Just… Let’s swim before it gets too dark and Sam sends out a search party to make sure we haven’t drowned. We can work the rest out.” 

The water is colder than Dean was anticipating. Cas walks straight in till he’s waist deep, because he’s kind of a bad ass, while Dean faffs around trying to acclimatise while trying to look like he’s not acclimatising. It’s _good_ though; the cold sharpens the edges of his nerves and it has that unique ability to make you feel alive. He swears when he the water hits his shoulders but after that it’s okay, and then he crosses over into feeling _awesome_. 

“Quit laughing at me, jackass.” Dean says, swimming out to meet Cas. 

“No,” Cas says, and he’s smiling now. Dean flicks water in his face. “Do you not remember how this goes?” 

“Yeah, a decade ago, maybe.” 

“I’m a better swimmer than you,” 

“I’ve got better aim,” Dean says, then flicks more water in his face. Cas looks fucking amazing, obviously, and the tension has bled away from his shoulders again. They can do this. It’s going to take some time, but they can definitely make this work. 

Cas splashes what feels like half the sea in his face. 

“Sonuva-” Dean begins, and then Cas gets him again, and he’s left spitting out sea water. 

“You were saying?” 

“Allright, allright, Uncle.” 

“I don’t think your Uncle is here.” 

“Asshole,” Dean says and then… and then they’re face to face. 

Cas has a drip of water tracking down his face, and Dean reaches forward to wipe it off his cheek, treading water. He’s exquisite like this, with his bed head messed up with the seawater and his neck glistening in the nearly- moonlight. 

“You’re not,” Cas says, intent and serious as he looks at him. He looks halfway to upset and Dean doesn’t really know why anymore, because every interaction they’ve had since they got down to the beach has felt emotionally charged but somehow good, still, and he’s close and treading water, too. “You’re not worthless, Dean. You’re the opposite of worthless.” 

And then Cas kisses him. 


	4. Day 6

Back at the beach house, Sam is playing solitaire with a beer and the radio cracking classic rock into the kitchen. Dean feels a little like his whole world has inverted, in a good way for once, but Sam is sat there like nothing has happened.

“Hey. Good swim?” Sam asks, glancing up from his cards.

“Yep,” Dean says, putting their undrunk beers back in the fridge and hanging his towel on the back of one of the kitchen chairs.

“You wanna play poker?” 

“Uh,” Dean says, glancing back at Cas feeling a little lost. It turns out it’s pretty hard to kiss properly while treading water and just after Cas kissed him a wave caught them unawares, and they wound up spluttering back to the shore with saltwater in their eyes. As summer evenings go, it was cold enough to mean that they were both near- shivering out of the water, so they started the walk back up to the house without really talking about what happened. They walked close together with their hands nearly touching, but they didn’t get as far as actually talking it out. Or kissing again. “I’m pretty beat, so I think I’m gonna hit the hay.” 

It’s a weak excuse, given its much earlier than he’s been to bed since they got there, and given they’ve spent the day watching Star Wars and doing not a lot. Sam doesn’t push it, though, and just shrugs his wide shoulders.

“Cas?”

“No,” Cas says, “I’m going to finish my book.”

Dean’s not really sure whether that means Cas has got the message, but he doesn’t ask on the way back upstairs and to his room in case Sam is listening. He doesn’t really give a shit what Sam knows, generally, but something about this still feels private and tentative, and he sort of wants to know what’s happening before Sam does.

He slips back into his room and sits on the foot of the bed to wait for Cas to come back.

And, what if Cas is just going back to his room to finish his book? What if he’s not going to head back here to continue what he started on the beach?

Dean’s just dug his phone out of his pocket to text him when Cas knocks on his door, thank fuck, and then he’s stood there with his cloudy-day-ocean-blue eyes and his rumpled shirt, looking for all the world like he doesn’t know if Dean wants him to be there.

“Hey,” Dean breathes.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas says, right on fucking cue. “I wasn’t sure if…” Cas begins, and the ending of the sentence could be just about anything, but — that damn wave cost Dean a proper kiss, and the hell is he missing out on one now for a conversation. Especially when Dean’s pretty sure he can clear most things up by pulling Castiel in by his shirt, cupping his jaw with his hand, and tilting his chin just right to kiss him again. 

This time, it’s perfect. 

Dean spent ten years navigating the physical space between them. He’s spent _years_ pushing back the insatiable urge to straighten out his shirt with his hands, smooth down his hair, rest a hand on his lower back. He’s become fixated in looking at the smooth, magnetic lines of Castiel’s shoulders or his hands or the gorgeous curve of his lips. Sometimes he allowed himself to nudge their knees together, or put a hand on his shoulder, forever chasing down the need to have the solid warmth of Cas under his fingers. He wanted, somehow, to take down these barriers of personal space and stuff they didn’t say to each other, of wanting him but being too damn scared to say anything, of being so goddamn unsure if the long, intent looks meant something, or if Dean was projecting, but he never really knew how to make it happen. He’s been so fucking careful around Cas for so freaking long that it’s exhausting and painful and _costs_ him, every time they look at each other and don’t touch. 

The levee breaks in the beach house master bedroom, twenty years after they first visited the place.

It’s probably a little fucked up that it reminds Dean a little of seeing Cas again at Chuck’s funeral. 

Dean had been prepared for it - at least as much as he thought he could be - but then there was this moment and he couldn’t have predicted that. The Milton brothers were all stood at the doorway after the service to shake people’s hands to thank them for coming and the usual funeral bullcrap. Dean had watched Cas throughout a lot of the service and was pretty certain that Cas hadn’t clocked he was there, so he dawdled until the crowd had thinned out, some, before heading for the door. He wasn’t going to go to the wake. He figured Cas had enough to deal with without Dean being there, dragging stuff up, but he… he wanted there not to be too many witnesses to their moment. Honestly, Dean was torn between predicting an ice cold handshake or Cas dragging him outside to yell at him, but either way it felt like it shouldn’t intrude on the actual day. 

Instead, Cas made this wounded noise, broke his space in the line to throw his arms around Dean’s neck and started to fucking cry. He’d been stoic and unreadable when Samandriel read the eulogy, face impassive as they carried in the coffin, and then, seven years after they argued about his damn wedding, Cas was sobbing into his shoulder. 

Something about the distance and the silence and all that bullshit just crumbled, and whatever the hell they’d argued about fell into irrelevance, and Dean held him until he stopped shaking. 

Cas makes that same wounded noise when Dean kisses him, and then falls into it with abandon. 

He tastes of salt and his hair is still damp from the sea, and he steps forward into the space between Dean’s legs and to close the rest of the gap, and kisses him like none of the last seven years ever happened. It’s uncomplicated and fucking awesome, and —- that’s _Castiel_ with his hands twisted in Dean’s hair, Castiel’s tongue, teeth, lips, Castiel pulling back to press the forehead’s together to look at him. 

“Does that,” Dean breathes, “Clear some things up?”

Cas exhales and kisses him again. 

He wants — he wants something solid behind him, because concentrating on staying vertical when he could be concentrating on making out with Castiel fucking Milton is a goddamn waste, so he shifts up the bed and pulls Cas with him. And — yes, it’s much better when Cas has taken the hint, and then Cas is kissing him into the pillows with his knee wedged between Dean’s thighs, and a serious commitment to necking like they’re fifteen and have just realised how awesome it is. 

_He’s kissing Cas._

The initial frenzy thank-fuck-we’re doing this gives way to slow, languid touches, where Dean gets to test out what it feels like to rest a hand on Cas’ lower back, and how the rough of Cas’ cheek feels under his thumb, and it might actually be even better. This is what he really wanted. This, right here.

“Are you still wearing your swimming shorts?” Cas asks, voice deeper and lower than Dean has ever heard it. If that’s any indication of what his bedroom voice is gonna be, Dean is fucked.

“Uh,” Dean says, glancing down at his thighs. “Yep.”

“You’re going to get sand in your bed.”

“It’s the beach,” Dean says. “Everything gets sand freaking everywhere.”

“They’re damp from swimming,” Cas says, nose wrinkled slightly. If this were anyone else in the world, he’d make a joke about Cas trying to get him naked, but it’s not, and this doesn’t feel like they should complicate it with sex yet.

Dean rolls his eyes, kisses him again, and heads for his suitcase. 

“Happy?” Dean asks, after he’s changed into his boxers and hung his swimming shorts to dry properly in the ensuite. 

“Yes Dean,” Cas says, pulling him into his lap, “I am very, very happy.”

*

Sam texts him a little after half nine to say that’s he’s cooking pancakes. Dean’s struggling to give a crap about pancakes because he has all glorious six foot whatever of Cas curled up next to him in bed, and Dean feels pretty much the best he’s ever felt about waking up with someone, especially someone he hasn’t actually slept with. 

Still, he nudges Cas with his knee and mutters ‘ _pancakes_ ’ on his way to the bathroom, because it’s not often that his gigantor little brother actually makes breakfast. It probably means he logged some of Dean’s jibes about the amount of cooking he’s done round here, like Dean genuinely gives a shit.

By the time he’s out, Cas is gone and Dean debates stopping by Cas’ bedroom, but they haven’t actually had a conversation about any of this. In technical terms, all they’ve done and kiss and Dean’s now having a goddamn aneurysm about it, so basically he’s a thirteen year old girl, and…. What the hell does he do with that?

Dean grabs the nearest clothes he can and heads downstairs.

“You broke something or something?” Dean asks, “Cooking, Sam?”

“I cook,” Sam says, “You want bacon.”

“Always,” Dean says, “There coffee going?”

“Nope,” Sam says, “Put a pot on.”

Dean grunts in assent and heads to the coffee pot. The damn thing needs replacing and if Dean ever comes back here, it’s the first thing he’s doing. He’s all for keeping the general aesthetic of the place, but not in the name of bad coffee.

“Hey Cas,” Sam says, and Dean fumbles with the filter as he tries to turn round at the same time. “You up for pancakes?”

“Hmm, yes,” Cas says, settling against the kitchen counter next to the coffee machine. “Good morning, Dean.”

God, Dean wants to kiss him again.

“Hey,” Dean says, and his voice is a lot softer than he really meant for it to be with his brother right there. Cas smiles like Dean’s the best thing that’s ever happened, though, so Dean thinks he can probably live with it. “Coffee?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“You, uh. Sleep okay?”

“Yes,”

“Okay, first pancakes ready,” Sam says. Dean clears his throat and heads for the kitchen table. He’s pretty sure whatever moment they were having has well and truly been shattered by Sam and his goddamn _pancake crusade_ , so they can talk about this later. Or, just kiss some more. Make out.

“Thanks, Sammy,” Dean says.

Breakfast is… awkward. 

“So I was thinking,” Sam says, after the third long pause since they started eating. Sam’s made a lot of valiant attempts at making conversation, but none of it’s really taken. Dean’s head’s a goddamn mess and Cas has been falling back into his staring habit, and Sam’s just trying to keep them afloat. “There’s this little fishing harbour a couple of miles up the road. I might go check it out.” He can feel Sam’s gaze drilling into his skin and Dean’s accidentally knocked Cas’ feet under the table three times (Dean knew the table was small, but he didn’t realise _how goddamn small_ the thing was until this morning), and every time Dean tries to participate in the fucking conversation he gets caught up in thinking about Cas kissing him. “If,” Sam continues. “Either of you wanted to come.”

Dean can’t actually remember them ever _going anywhere_ in any of the summers at the beach house. 

“Uh,” Dean says, “I’m… okay.”

“Yes,” Cas says, “No thank you, Sam.”

“Okay,” Sam says, “Well. I might swing round the shop on the way back. Pick up some more groceries.”

“Awesome,” 

“So,” Sam says, “Text me any requests.”

“Will do, Sammy,” Dean says.

“There’s enough mix for more pancakes,” 

“Perhaps later,” Cas says.

“Allright,” Sam says, standing up and dumping his plate in the sink. Dean would usually get it at him for not just doing his washing up, but honestly, he just wants Sam to hurry up and _leave_.

They sit in silence, looking at each other, until Sam shuts the front door behind him.

“Come on,” Dean says, standing up fast enough that he knocks the chair halfway across the damn kitchen. It’s loud in the otherwise quiet of the beach house. 

“Where are we going,” Cas asks, already standing up to follow him.

“Back to bed.”

And -- 

It’s so, so easy to fall back into kissing Castiel on the beach house master bed, and it’s fucking awesome. Dean gets to rest his hand on the small of Cas’s back again as they make out, with Cas’ hand in his hair, unhurried and slow, like each kiss is slowly stitching them back together. There are other stretches of skin that Dean’s never been permitted to touch, too: the place where the soft skin behind his ear gives way to stubble, his shoulder blades, the curve under his knee. Cas oblidges him easily, on his back in the middle of the bed, one hand tangled up in the back of Dean’s shirt to stop moving far away. 

It’s when he’s aiming to skim the pads of his fingers across Cas’ stomach, touch travelling up from his thigh, that Dean gets close enough to Cas’ crotch that it probably makes him a tease. The unhappy-but-happy noise at the back of Cas’ throat indicates Cas definitely noticed the feather-light _almost touch_ , which feels like an invitation to do it again, because maybe Dean Winchester is a goddamn tease.

He’s not sure he had intentions when he led them back upstairs, he just knew that he’d been sat, eating breakfast with Sam right next to him, and all he wanted to do was kiss Cas again. Dean’s a thirty two year old fucking adult, but it felt a lot like being four and beging given a brand new toy on Christmas Day, and then being told to sit still at the dinner table until dinner was over, except that _getting to kiss Cas_ is better than any present he ever got as a kid. He just wanted it to be last night again, so he could tilt Cas’s face towards him with a hand under his chin, and kiss him till his whole freaking body felt warm with it. 

Now, Dean pulls back enough to strip them both of their shirts. It’s much goddamn better without and he’s rewarded for his efforts with Cas pressing kisses into his neck and, damn, that’s hot with the rough of his stubble and it being Cas, who’s basically the sole reason Dean was aware of half his damn sexuality for the first few years. 

There’s something addictive and kind of thrilling about fake-accidentally touching Cas through his jeans, like they really did do this when they were teenagers. Cas inhales a sharp breath almost mutters a swear word, and yeah, Dean wants to hear more of that. A lot goddamn more and, fine, maybe teasing is freaking entertaining, but Dean’s always been too damn easy not to give up the goods.

Cas stops him undoing his jeans with a hand and a pained _“Dean.”_

Dean backs off. Rolls off him until they’re both lying next to each other, staring at the ceiling. Cas threads their fingers together, which is good. Nice. Definitely makes Dean feel better about the Cas hitting the breaks situation, which ---

“Dean,” Cas says, and that _fucking voice_ , “If we do this, our friendship is ruined.”

Of all the objections in the world, that one is fucking ridiculous enough that Dean almost laughs. 

“Cas, you…” Dean begins, sucking in another lungful of air. “We haven’t spoken in half a decade, and you think this is the thing that’s gonna ruin it? I think we already covered our bases three times over.”

“I know,” Cas says, and there’s this crease in his forehead that Dean wants to memorise, and he’s all ruffled and fucking beautiful.

“Cas.”

“I don’t want you just until Sam comes back, or until the end of this trip. I don’t want to _be your friend_. I want you.”

“You think I’m letting you fucking go? I’ve wanted this for sixteen freaking years, Cas, I don’t anticipate being _done with you_ this side of dying.”

“Okay,” Cas says, then he surges forward and Dean suddenly has a lap full of Castiel. This time with more bite and simmering heat, and, _fuck_ , Cas is going to be good in bed. Not _this is incredible because I’ve wanted it for half my life, good_ , but objectively fucking _good_. He’s got a finger looped around Dean’s belt hooks and this thumb edging below the line of Dean’s boxers, and the whole universe has narrowed down to the fact that it’s looking pretty likely that, at some point soon, Castiel goddamn Milton is going to touch his junk. The teenage version of himself that still reintroduces himself every so often is having a fucking party and Dean just might throw a ‘fuck it’ and join him, because _Cas_ wants him, permanetly, after all this time and all this distance, and all the ways that they’ve accidentally hurt each other.

And then Cas jerks away again and frowns at him. 

“I didn’t bring anything.”

“What?” Dean asks. His voice is embarrassingly wrecked considering they haven’t actually done anything yet. 

“Supplies,” Cas says, imploring and, fuck Sam’s theory for being right about everything, and Dean’s shitty self esteem for not packing freaking condoms.

(He’d actually thought about it, with Sam’s _he really was in love with you, Dean_ playing at the back of his mind, but even if he let himself believe that Sam might have a point, and that Cas might still want him, two weeks didn’t seem like enough time to cover all the ground they needed to cover first. He hadn’t anticipated them being efficient enough to air all their dirty laundry in _five days_ ).

“Sonuvabitch.”

“ _Dean_ ,” Cas complains, with what can only be described as a fucking pout.

“Why’s this suddenly my responsibility?”

“I thought I was going away with my _straight_ best friend and his _straight_ brother, sleeping in a single bunk bed in my recently deceased father’s house,” Cas says, “ _You_ at least knew that there were two consenting adults that could hypothetically sleep together, and that at least one of them _wanted to_.” 

“I, maybe,” Dean says because, objectively, Cas has a point. “But it all seemed so unlikely.”

Cas cuts him off with a kiss that sort of makes Dean forget to think, which probably doesn’t help their current predicament. 

“We should,” Dean draws back and clenches his jaw, “We should, uh, probably fucking cool it, I guess.”

“How is this possible?” Cas says, “The anti-year book voted you most likely to have a condom in your wallet _unanimously_ , Dean.”

Cas is such a goddamn adorable little weirdo. As far as Dean remembers, Cas was the sole backer of the anti-year book and one of two contributed and, god, Dean loves him. He really fucking loves him.

“It also voted you most likely to work for the mafia. Maybe they’re not foolproof, Sweetheart. Wait,” Dean says, forehead creasing, “Maybe…” Dean begins, headed for the end of the bed to dig his wallet out of the pair of jeans he wore here. He hasn’t actually used the damn thing since they got there (Cas stocked the place up with food before they arrived, and they haven’t actually been anywhere else) but, maybe…

Jackpot.

“Tada,” Dean says, chucking a single condom and a sachet of lube in Cas’ direction with a wink. “Gold star for the anti-yearbook.” 

“Get back here,” Cas says, deep and commanding, “I need to kiss you again.”

And, really, how could Dean argue with that?

*

By the time Dean has persuaded the damn machine to make another two coffees, Cas has dragged their deckchairs as close together as the arms allow and has cracked open his book. He’s moved Dean’s chair further into the shade because he’s completely fucking charming and looks up and smiles when he hears Dean padding across the porch.

“Hey,” Dean says, sitting down and stretching out his legs. “Thought you nearly finished that.”

“Not quite,” Cas says, “There are two more chapters.”

“And, uh, how’s the literary tension devices and that bullshit?” Dean asks and Cas’ mouth softens into a smile that makes Dean’s soul ache. “You --- you enjoying it?”

“Yes,” Cas says, and he spends the next couple of hours trying to explain the plot and it almost feels like nothing has actually changed.

* 

Sam gets back around seven PM with chinese take out and groceries, and Dean drags himself from his deckchair (and away from Cas) to help him sort out all of it. Sam bought _a lot_ of damn food, both take out and otherwise. 

“And,” Sam says, after he’s filled the table with what looks like everything Dean’s ordered from a chinese restaurant ever and used every spoon in the place for serving, “I bought stuff for margaritas.” 

“What are you, a college girl?” Dean asks, standing up to help Sam put the rest of the crap in the fridge. 

It looks a lot like he’s covered them for the rest of the two weeks, with a distinctly _un-Sam-like_ collection of food: pizza, more burgers, beer. The general content of Dean’s fridge, not Sam’s health food crap.

“Hey, if you don’t want one.”

“Didn’t say that,” Dean says, setting aside the tequila and lime juice, “You just got some kind of hankering?”

“Thought about it yesterday with the mexican night,” Sam says, “Know it doesn’t exactly go with chinese food.”

“What are you? The culinary police,” Dean says, “Cas, you wanna a margarita? Sam’s speciality.”

“Yes,” Cas says, “How was your day trip?”

“Great,” Sam says, “Really interesting.”

“Oh yeah?” Dean says, “We got ice?”

“Bottom drawer.”

“You want it blended,” Dean says, “Or over ice.”

“Is there a blender?” Sam asks, “Cas?”

“I have no idea,” Cas says, “Our father is the only one who actually used this kitchen. Did you get prawn crackers?”

“In the bag, Cas.” Sam says, “Okay. Over ice it is.”

“Hey, let’s make a big batch and take ‘em down to the beach after dinner,” Dean says. “Bring the cards, play poker.”

“Sounds great,” Sam says, “You guys have a good day?”

“Yep,” Dean says, and leaves it at that, “So, whatcha find to geek out about _here_.”

“Actually Dean, the history of fishing round these parts is -”

“ - Oh, man,” Dean rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t really mind it. Honestly, given his brother clearing out for the day for some nerd-trip meant he head the day alone with Cas, he’s probably gonna owe him for the rest of his damn life (as if he didn’t already), “Shouldn’t have freaking asked.”

It’s a good meal, even if they end up having to stuff the fridge full of leftovers before they head down the beach with a flask full of Sam’s margarita mix and a couple of plastic cups for a good measure. They forget the cards and no one can really be bothered to do the five minute walk back up to the house to get them, so Dean half heartedly suggests they play truth or dare like back in the day and somehow that turns into playing ‘never have I ever’ because Cas, the weirdo alien that he is, has never _heard_ of it.

As it turns out, Sam has never kissed a boy (predictable) but he has had sex outside, unlike Cas. Cas _has_ had sex on the first date and slept with someone who’s name he doesn’t know, which is the kind of information that blows Dean’s mind. Sam has skipped class, which is a goddamn scandal, and Dean is having a lot more fun than he’d care to admit, sitting shoulder to shoulder with Cas against ‘the cliff edge’ and laughing with two of his favourite people on the damn planet. 

And, fuck, he forgot how strong Sam makes his margaritas. 

“Never have I ever,” Cas says, “Lost a shoe on a date.”

Sam rolls his eyes and necks half his drink.

“Nice,” Dean says, offering his hand up for a high five. Cas catches his damn hand after the high five like a perfect little oddball. Dean let’s him hold his hand for a few long seconds before he lets go on the pretence of topping up his glass. He…. he needs to talk to Sam, properly, at some point. He probably needs to have an _actual_ conversation with Cas before that though, and he’s having way too much fun to fit in any of that serious stuff tonight. 

It’s been a long time since they’ve actually had a vacation. Honestly, Dean can’t remember the last time Dean’s seen Sam relaxed, let alone drinking to excess on a goddamn beach. The last few years haven’t been easy. Hell, they’ve never exactly had anything _easy_ , so having his…. Cas and Sam laughing and hanging out on a beach with easy smiles and drink in hand is actually pretty amazing. Yeah, Cas is grieving and Dean is kind of broken and Sam works too much and worries too much, but tonight is good. 

“Fine,” Sam says, quirking his eyebrows up and sending Dean a look that means Dean’s definitely going to get it. “Never have I ever worn women’s underwear and liked it.”

“Fuck you,” Dean says, and takes another drink. Cas chuckles beside him and half nudges him in the process. It’s kind of dark so the lines of Cas’ profile are hard to make out, but he can see that Cas’ smile is soft and reassuring when Dean catches his eye. “Never have I ever been to law school.”

“I feel personally victimised,” Cas says, as they both drink. “Top me up, Sam.”

“Your turn, Cas,” Sam says, leaning forward to pour more liquid into his glass, sloshing some over the side and into the sand. 

“I have never,” Cas begins, “Been a Winchester.”

“Now you’re just being cute.”

“A lifetime occupation, Dean,” Cas says and, hey, apparently Castiel can fucking _flirt_. In front of Sam, but Dean can live with that.

“Asshole,” Dean smiles.

“Never have I ever been caught, butt naked, in a school supply cupboard,” Sam says, eyes glittering with amusement as Dean rolls his eyes and drains his cup.

“Need a top up,” 

“We’re out,” Sam says, holding the flask upside to demonstrate. The last drops of margarita drip onto Sam’s shoe.

“I have a confession,” Cas says, looking at his cup with an expression so serious that Dean thinks they’re about to be treated to another ‘I quit my job’ bombshell. Dean said goodbye to sobriety a couple of cups of margarita ago (apparently, Dean’s easier to target than either of his nerdy brother or his dorky ex-best friend/ something; go figure) and he’s not sure he’s got it in him to handle anything Cas is about to say with tact. “There is a chance that the person who told the caretaker you were in the supply cupboard… was me.”

Sam laughs, loudly.

“ _What_?”

“I,” Cas says, and he’s smirking into his drink now, deadpan forgotten, “I was jealous.”

“I got detention for _three weeks_ , you jackass.”

“Oh my god,” Sam says, “Cas. That’s brilliant.”

“She wasn’t good enough for you,” Cas says, “And it was _very funny_.”

“Three damn weeks.”

“Dean,” Cas says, “You were _in the supply cupboard_. I am not accepting full responsibility for this.”

“I,” Dean says, “Yeah, I got nothing. No defense _and_ nothing else to drink”

“I’m out, too,” Sam says, holding up his cup and crushing it in his fist. “Let’s head back.”

“Allright,” Cas says, staggering up and offering Dean a hand. Sam grabs the empty flask and stretches, and Dean winds up throwing an arm over Cas’ shoulders as they wander back to the house, and it’s the best, freest evening Dean’s had in years. 

(And after they get back, Cas comes to his room and Dean suggests they play a strip version of never have I ever, until Cas has asked so many questions about the exact kind of women’s underwear Dean’s worn that he’s totally butt naked. When Dean crawls into bed next to him and kisses him, after, Cas smiles into his neck and says _you’re drunk, Dean_ and he falls asleep with Cas running his hands through his hair.)


	5. Day 7 & 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Contains some more details about some of the not good stuff with Alistair that’s mentioned in previous chapters

In the morning, he has regrets.

They’re mostly entirely focused on exactly how much tequila Sam puts in margaritas and a little to do with the fact that he’s not twenty one anymore, because he didn’t _used_ to get hungover after a couple of fucking cocktails. Being hungover always sort of makes him hate himself, which is a bad habit he largely kicked a couple of years back. Having a reminder of it now isn’t exactly welcome. 

And --- he needs coffee. He needs _a lot_ of coffee. 

Next year when they come here, Dean’s bringing a coffee machine with him. He’ll bring his _own_ if Cas won’t let him buy a new one, because it’s torturously slow and a complete pain in the ass to kick into action.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas says, appearing in the kitchen.

“There’s no coffee yet.”

“I can see that.”

“Huh.”

“How are you, Dean?” Cas asks, hovering in his personal space near the coffee pot. 

“There’s a chance,” Dean says, pressing a thumb into his temple and shutting his eyes, “That I drank too many margaritas.”

Cas smiles at him and there’s some fond bemusement there that Dean can definitely live with. 

“I would take that bet,” 

“Damn Sam and his gigantor hollow legs and his alcohol tolerance,” Dean says, “And his strong ass cocktails.”

“Poor Dean,” Cas says, settling his hands on Dean’s shoulders and offering him another smile. He’s going to lean forward and kiss him because he does feel a little pathetic and kissing Cas would almost definitely make it better, but then Sam is stood in the doorway to the kitchen and Cas drops his hands from Dean’s shoulders and takes a step back.

“Hey guys,” Sam says. He’s Sam, which means he’s completely nonplussed by catching them in the middle of their moment, even though Dean hasn’t actually _talked_ to Sam yet. He’s carrying the duffel bag full of books and swimming trunks that he dropped in the back of the impala a few days ago. And — 

Sam’s leaving. 

“You going somewhere, Sam?” Dean asks, raising an eyebrow.

He has the decency to look a little sheepish about being caught mid-getaway. 

“Yeah,” Sam says, “Sorry, Dean. Didn’t realise you were up yet. Was gonna talk to you before but… Yeah. I think I’m gonna head back. It was helpful for me to be a buffer for a while, but I’m pretty sure now I’m just getting in your way, so.”

“Awh, Sammy,” Dean says, stomach flipping.

“No, it’s okay,” Sam says, “I’ve had a really great time, but... I’ve got a lot of work to do and the WiFi sucks. Plus, it looks like it’s gonna rain a lot, and I really don’t want to watch that cheaper by the dozen sequel.”

“Again.” Dean says, because they’ve definitely seen it about a dozen times. Dean’s pretty sure Gabriel started picking the damn movie whenever it was his choice just to troll him. He could quote the fucking thing. “I… you sure, Sam?”

“Yeah,” Sam says, “Really sure, Dean. Breakfast yesterday was painful.”

Yeah, Dean’s betting that wasn’t a whole lot of fun. Actually, Dean’s pretty sure that Sam has the patience of a saint, given the amount of time they’ve spent thinking of excuses to disappear alone and how much he’s been making moon eyes at Cas over goddamn mexican food. They’ve snuck off to bed early, gone off on walks, turned down day trips and _cuddled on the fucking sofa_. Frankly, Sam putting up with it for this long is just ---

His brother is the best. 

“Apologies, Sam,” Cas says, “We didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“Don’t worry about it, Cas,” Sam shrugs, “Like I said, its been great and I’m… I’m all about _this_ happening, anyway.” He finishes, gesturing between the two of them and giving Dean a soft smile that usually translates to _I’m proud of you_ which needles him a little. Dean feels a little… 

Wrongfooted. 

“Thank you.”

“Cas, I’m thinking I’ll drive back down when Gabriel and Samandriel come for the weekend, if that’s okay?”

“Of course. You can take my car if you want,” Cas says, “Assuming Dean is still particular about who drives ‘his baby’.”

“That'd be great,” Sam says, and then he’s leaning forward to give Cas a hug, and Cas is giving Sam _Dean’s coffee_ for the road and Dean’s not all that sure what the hell is happening anymore.

“Dean,” Sam says, as Dean carries the last of Sam’s bag out into the driveway. He feels a little… unsettled and he’s not really sure why. He feels a little like Sam has shone a microscope on this new, tentative thing just by acknowledging it exists, and he feels —- exposed. Vulnerable. “Is this… okay?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, already retreating back into his shell. He’s not really sure what about all of this has his walls coming up, but they’re _there_ and that’s bad news for just about everything. “Course, Sam. You --- drive safe.”

“Dean, I was going to talk to you about this first,” Sam says, which means that’s the part Sam thinks he’s bothered about. “I just… pretending not to notice you guys undressing each other with your eyes is just…”

“No,” Dean returns, “It’s fine, Sam.”

“And we’ll talk about this later, okay?”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees, swallowing past the lump in his throat and nodding. “Later, Sammy.”

When he gets back inside, Cas has made another pot of coffee and is squinting at the fridge and Dean feels a little bit like he’s mistepped and is beginning to fall some deep, unknowable distance. It’s just _Cas_ , who’s about as intimidating as a puppy (unless he’s pissed off, because Cas can really pull off that sexy thundering rage thing), so there’s no reason at all that Cas standing in the beach house kitchen in his pyjamas should kickstart a genuine thrill of fear.

“There’s enough of Sam’s pancake mix for both of us,” Cas says, “Or, what’s your opinion on leftover chinese food for breakfast?”

“Uh,” Dean says, “Whatever.”

And --- Cas _knows_ Dean. He knows all of Dean’s vulnerabilities and his stories and his fears. Cas knows about his complicated, intense relationship with his father, and about his co-dependency issues with Sam, and how he reacts when he really, really wants something. Cas knows the damn story about Dean losing his virginity and he knows about Alistair. 

( _And the thing about someone knowing all of that is that’s all the ammunition and power they need to hurt you_.)

“Egg fried rice _is_ essentially a breakfast food,” Cas says, hovering closer as he brings over Dean’s coffee. “And it might help with your hangover.”

Cas drops his hands to the slope of Dean’s shoulders like it’s completely fucking natural and Dean jerks away like he’s been electocuted. 

Fuck.

“Uh,” Dean says, standing up, “I. Actually feel pretty…. Bad. Hangover. So, I’m gonna… just go back to bed.”

“Dean,” Cas says, but his heads already spinning with the fact that last night Dean got drunk and more or less threw himself at Castiel like a goddamn idiot, and how unguarded and fucking _stupid_ he was at the beach, and ---

( _The thing with Alistair is that Dean thought he had it under control. He was pig headed and stubborn enough to believe that he’d kept enough of himself back that he was safe. He didn’t tell him the intimate shit about his life and he kinda figured that was enough for none of it to get under his skin, until he was three hundred miles away from anyone who cared about him, throwing up in a pay-by-the-hour motel room because of the pain of having his fucking skin peeled off while Alistair detailed all the ways in which Dean was a waste of space._ )

“I’ll,” Dean begins, chest pounding, “Later, Cas.”

He’s on a goddamn _mini-break_ with Castiel and he’s not really sure how it happened. It’s just _them_ for the next five days in the freaking beach house. Just the two of them, alone, in this house.

They really, really should have a conversation about all of this before they slept together. 

Dean near-slams the door to the master bedroom behind him, collapses onto the bed and turns off the light.

( _\-- And the shitty motel sheets have the texture of sandpaper and Alistair’s elbow is pressing into the back of his neck, and he slams his eyes shut and --_ )

Yesterday, Cas flipped them over, mid-kiss, like Dean was freaking _weightless_ and at the time that was all kinds of hot. He kissed him into _these pillows_ and Dean was pinned to the goddamn bed by Cas’ thighs, exposed.

He’s not hungover enough to actually be sick (he has a headache pulsing behind his eye, but he really could feel a lot worse), but it happens anyway. He makes it to the bathroom just in time to throw up the entire contents of his stomach and he spends the next few minutes resting his head against the bathroom wall until his breathing levels out.

( _You can’t run, Dean. Not from me. I’m inside that angsty little noggin of yours_ )

Eventually, he makes it back to the bed.

He debates texting Sam for a whole five minutes, because it’s completely fucking pathetic that Dean is hiding upstairs in the beach house because he can’t deal with his goddamn emotions. 

In the end, he forces himself to think back to Sam, sitting next to him on the edge of the car and making Dean _promise_ that he’d tell someone if he wasn’t okay. And —- Sam will get it, Sam loves him, Sam doesn’t mind babying Dean through some of this bullshit.

He texts him the word _funkytown_ before turning over to bury his face in one of the Milton family pillows and tries to keep his heart rate down until his phone rings.

“Hey,” Dean says, sitting up and switching on the light. 

“You okay?” 

“Uh, yeah,” Dean says, adrenaline and panic and dread sloshing around his gut. He knows Sam knows that it’s bullshit, because Sam is reliably good at seeing right through him. “Drive going okay?”

“Stopped for gas,” Sam says, “Dean, if you need me to come back -“

“No,” Dean says, “No, Sammy. I’ll be okay.”

“Is Cas there?”

“Downstairs.”

“Okay,” Sam exhales, which means he’s worked out that Dean is upstairs hiding, at least. That doesn’t exactly help Dean feel better about any of this, but... “What’s going on?”

“Is it,” Dean begins, clenching his fists, “Is it too quick?”

“For you and Cas,” Sam says.

“Not… not for me and Cas specifically, I just. I mean for _me._ ”

“After Alistair?”

“Right.”

“Dean,” Sam says, gentle. “You’re doing really well. You’re just freaking out because you told Cas all this stuff and are feeling a little vulnerable.” 

Right, vulnerable.

( _I carved you into a new animal, Dean. There is no going back_ ). 

“Look,” Sam says, “You haven’t done this for a while. It’s pretty natural to feel like this.”

And that’s… that’s true. He hasn’t.

And… 

He’s talked about this in therapy, so it shouldn’t really have taken him by surprise. He’s a fucking trauma survivor and well versed in the ways in which his head is messed up, and he knows that talking about this stuff is trigger. He knows drinking too much is a trigger, given he spent most of the last six months he was with him pickling his liver. He _knows_ sex is a trigger (first time he had a one night stand after he left Alistair he wound up having to call in sick for two days because of the flashbacks and the emotional whiplash of being pissed at himself and Alistair and being scared that his brain was broken forever and that he’d never be able to get laid again). And, generally, he’s careful enough about his own wellbeing to _not_ drag out the whole story into the light, have sex and then get drunk, without taking some time to process.

It’s just — He’s always lost his mind when it came to Cas. 

“Think I just,” Dean says, “Acted like I would’ve if none of that stuff happened and it caught up with me.” 

“Okay,” Sam says. 

“But — Okay. It’s okay.” 

“Dean,” Sam says, “Could you — do you think you could talk to Cas about some of this?”

The concept of going downstairs and talking to Cas about everything that just happened feels unsurmountable. If he could write a list of all the things he wants to do in the world, this one would almost definitely be the bottom of the list.

Logically, he knows needs to talk to Cas.

“Dunno.”

“Look,” Sam says, “Cas is hurting right now and he’s probably really confused.”

And... _fuck_. He knows that. He really, really knows that. He saw the look on Cas’ face when he ran away upstairs and he knows what he’s gotta be thinking. Cas _just_ lost his father and quit his job and he really needs Dean _not_ to be hiding upstairs with his feelings.

“I know.”

“If you can’t talk to him,” Sam says, “Do you want me to call him?”

God, Dean’s pathetic. He’s a total fucking mess.

“Sam.”

“Dean. I just don’t want this to get messed up because of this stuff. It’s okay if you can’t talk to Cas. I get that and it’s ... totally understandable. I just really think he should know what’s happening.” 

“Yeah I,” Dean says, gritting his teeth and swallowing, “I can go talk to him.” 

“Take your time,” Sam says, “Look, you don’t have to do it right now, but. When you can, I really think you should.”

“I’m getting up,” Dean says, pulling himself to his feet, “I --- feel like _crap_ thanks to your freaking margaritas, but I’m getting up.”

“Takes some tylenol, drink some water and take a shower,” Sam says, “Then see if you can go talk to Cas.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, crossing the room and rifling through his case to find some damn painkillers. “Did you --- did you buy me fucking condoms and put them in my suitcase?”

“Yes,” Sam says.

“You’re a really good brother.”

“No kidding,” Sam snorts.

“And you _really_ need a life, Sam. Seriously.”

Cas must have bought up a glass of water last night, because there’s an empty glass on the bedside table that he definitely didn’t bring up here. Dean walks to the bathroom to fill it up with water.

“Roger that,” Sam says, “Look, Dean,”

“I know,” Dean breathes, before Sam can say the ‘I love you’ that Dean knows from experience is coming. “I’ll be okay. Thanks, Sammy.”

Dean looks himself dead in the eye in the mirror.

( _Did you really think this was gonna fix you? Give you closure? That is sad. That’s really sad. Sad, sad, sad._ )

It’s been a long damn time since Alistair had his hooks in him and Dean knows full fucking well how to combat this mental bullshit. This aint his first rodeo. He _knows_ how to deal with his brain tripping over itself and he knows, logically, that Castiel is nothing like Alistair. 

“Allright,” Sam says, “Call me later, Dean.”

“Kay,” Dean agrees, swallowing the painkillers and downing the glass of water.

( _Yesterday, Cas pinned Dean to the bed with his goddamn thighs, touched Dean like he was a precious object and breathed his name like it was his favourite word in the English Language. Cas has been in love with him since they were kids. He obsesses over weather forecasts and likes swimming in the ocean just after it’s rained._ )

“I’ll be okay,” Dean says, with the confidence of someone who’s bullshitted himself through most of his damn life, “Thanks, Sam.”

*

When he heads downstairs, Cas is watching the next Star Wars movie with his legs stretched out across the two seater sofa. He doesn’t move them when Dean enters the room, which means he’s at least a little bit pissed. Dean’s not about to relegate himself to the armchair with his head this messed up, though, so he sits at the foot of the sofa instead, with Cas’ thigh as a pillow.

“Sorry,” Dean says.

“If you’re intending to change your mind, I’d prefer it if you just left.”

“Right,” Dean scoffs, “Like I’d leave you here like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like, quit your job out of the fucking blue to rattle around in your estranged dead father’s house, with a guy you haven’t spoken to in seven years,” Dean says, because the classic Winchester response to anything is to act like the world’s biggest jerk. “And I haven’t changed my mind about a goddamn thing.”

Cas hits pause on the remote and looks at him.

“Why are you being an ass?”

“Because I _am_ an ass.”

“If you can’t deal with being together without your brother to mediate -”

“- I had a panic attack,” Dean spits out, “I. It happens, sometimes.”

The silence that falls over them is loud.

“Dean,” Cas says, and this time his voice has dropped to the lower, more intimate version, “Talk to me.”

“Look, I’m not as well fucking adjusted as you seem to think and,” Dean breathes, and that’s Cas’ hand in his hair, fingers brushing over his skull. Dean shuts his eyes, “Dealing with my shit ain’t exactly a picnic. You should probably _know_ that before you make any decisions about what you want. Look like a fully functioning adult most of the damn time, but I’m still a goddamn trauma survivor, so.” 

Cas shifts his legs to make room for him on the sofa. Apparently, Dean’s still a little shaky from before and it takes a little more work than it should to fumble himself onto the sofa. Cas wraps his arms around him and, okay, that’s good. That’s — good. 

“What happened?” Cas asks. “Did something --- trigger it?”

“You’re not gonna like it,”

“I don’t _generally_ like things that make you unhappy.”

“You,” Dean begins, shutting his eyes, “You remember how when we were kids, teenagers, I had a thing about being vulnerable. ‘Specially if there was sex involved.”

“Yes.”

“So, that,” Dean says, “Except, you add in the part where I regularly fucked a guy who used to hurt and manipulate me for two years of my life. It --- you’re _you_ , so I kind of forgot that I have to be super fucking careful wading around these boundaries, because…” Dean peals his eyes open to look at him, “Because I’m in love with you, so it feels like it should be on a different plain of existence than _anything_ to do with that.”

It’s not exactly the ideal to tell anyone you’re in love with them, but. This is how it is.

“But… it’s still _sex_ and, uh,was probably way too freaking soon for us sleep together after talking about everything with Alistair for my brain to process it properly, and Sam spent enough time in the last five years being the cheapest, most reliable therapist on my payroll that I… freaked out a little when he left. It’s… I’m okay. I called him.”

“Good.”

“I… Sorry I fucked up your day with my bullcrap.”

“Dean,” Cas says, “You haven’t ‘fucked up my day’. I’m… I didn’t intend to push anything.”

“You didn’t,” Dean says, “Honestly, Cas. Not your fault. I… I. Didn’t think I’d still feel like this. ‘Bout you. Then you freakin’ launched yourself me at the funeral.”

“I didn’t _launch_ myself at you.”

“Cas,” Dean says, “Was pretty much the only thing keeping you vertical.”

“Perhaps,” Cas conceds, tilting his head with an almost smile. 

“And I,” Dean says, swallowing, “I’d. I figured that I was…. That I was done. With … with this stuff. Caring about people like this. Letting my damn guard down, romantically.”

“You deserve good things, Dean.”

“Not sure about that,” Dean says, “But I… I _want_ a lot of things, when it comes to you, so this bullcrap took me by surprise.”

“You don’t need to explain.”

“Cas,” Dean says, sitting up to look at him dead in the eye. They’re that particular shade of blue and a little unsure and a lot sad, right now. “If you want,” Dean says, mouth a little dry, “I’d really appreciate it if you could have a little patience and bare with me, as I work out how to do this.”

“I’m in love with you,” Cas says, like it’s simple. “Whatever you need.”

“Thanks,” Dean breathes, dropping his head to Cas’ shoulder and sucking in a deep breath.

( _\-- and he smiled, cutting and cruel, as he sliced the word into his skin, but Cas looked at him in the moonlight water and said it wasn’t true; ‘you’re the opposite of worthless’_ )

Castiel is in love with him.

“You must be hungry,” Cas says, “You haven’t eaten anything.”

“I,” Dean begins, shame burning in his gut. It was _dumb_. This whole freakout was kind of dumb, but…. Hell, he used his words and he fucking communicated, so it’s not something to shake a stick at. He’s downstairs explaining to Cas exactly what’s going on in his head rather than standing back and letting his world combust, so Dean’s going to take that as a massive freaking win. “Threw up.”

“Dean, you need to eat something,” Cas says, standing up, “And you never drank your coffee.” 

“Cas,” Dean complains.

“Let me look after you,” Cas says, standing up and fixing him with a determined look.”You’ve been looking after me all week.” Dean hadn’t really thought about it like that. He kinda falls in the caregiver roll naturally (another therapy discovery), but it’s always a little disarming to have it pointed out like that. For all that Dean feels like he’s clinging onto Cas for freaking survival, Cas thinks Dean has been looking after him. “And you’re having a bad day.” 

“Okay,” Dean agrees, and it’s that simple and, as it turns out, it’s actually kind of easy.

Cas insists on bringing the grilled cheese he makes out to the porch, so they eat on their black and yellow deckchairs and sit outside talking and _not talking_ until the temperature drops enough to drive them inside. Then, Cas rewinds the Star Wars movie he started and they watch it from the beginning curled up on the sofa.

After it’s finished, Cas gets frustratingly flustered about not making any decision about where the hell he’s sleeping until Dean rolls his eyes and drags him into the beach house master bedroom just to avoid having another fucking non-conversation about it. Now, Cas is being way too goddamn respectful of Dean’s personal boundaries on the other side of the bed and it’s about as annoying as Sam was in the early days, but Dean can’t exactly blame him for any of it. He understands it, it’s just a pain in the ass. 

In the end, Dean texts Sam a _’everything okay. Thanks’_ before rolling into Cas’ personal space and taking up residence there.

He wakes the next day with a texted thumbs up from his brother feeling much, much better.

*

“There’s a italian restaurant a couple of miles down the road,” Dean says, setting Cas’ refilled coffee down next to his foot and stretching out his legs. The rain that Sam forecasted hasn’t shown any sign of appearing yet and it’s so damned hot today that Dean’s caught the sun through his sunblock. He’s got a whole new collection of freckles that have broken out across his shoulders, that Cas has catalogued with great enthusiasm (the adorable little freak) and he’s feeling pretty damn good.

“Okay,” Cas says, without opening his eyes.

“It’s, uh, got pretty good reviews.”

“That’s nice.”

“Okay,” Dean says, “I dunno if you’re being cute, or you’re actually not getting the fact that I’m asking you out for dinner.”

Cas opens one eye to squint at him.

“We have a lot of food in the fridge.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, “But we haven’t left this place in a week and I wanna take you out.”

“Do you mean like a date?”

“Okay, now you’re just being an asshole,” Dean says, “Yes, like a goddamn date.”

“That would be lovely.”

“Awesome,” Dean breathes and smiles at the damn sky, because it’s a warm and Dean’s on a freaking vacation with Cas, who just happens to be in love with him.

It’s a good day.

*

He didn’t pack a lot of nice clothes. Honestly, he doesn’t really _own_ a lot of nice clothes in the first place, but he pulls on his best pair of jeans and the best of the shirts he packed ahead of their first official date. He shaves because he’s pretty sure that Cas likes him best clean shaven and then realises that he disappeared upstairs to get ready way too goddamn soon.

He uses the extra time to change the bedsheets in an attempt to get rid of the sand (fucking beach) and tries not to think about whether he’s expecting to get lucky tonight, cause he’s actually relatively sure that Cas is tracking such a wide birth around Dean’s boundaries that anything happening would be an actual miracle. 

Obviously, Cas looks fucking _incredible_ when Dean knocks on the door to the smallest bedroom at the beach house, ten minutes before their reservation, and they wind up a little late because the second Cas is in the passanger seat of the Impala, Dean just has to kiss him, and that turns into five sold minutes of making out. 

As it turns out, the restaurant is quiet enough that it doesn’t make too much difference. 

“You didn’t have to order wine,” Cas says, watching him intently over the menu that Dean’s pretty sure neither of them have actually read. Cas is wearing a white button down that’s begging Dean to take it the hell off and there’s something a little wild and invigorating about being on an honest to god date with Castiel and it’s making crap like the menu feel a little irrelevant. 

“Yeah, I know that,” Dean says, “Can you, uh. Can you believe we’re actually doing this?”

“It is,” Cas says, “Somewhat surreal.”

“Good surreal?”

“Of course,” Cas says, smiling at him. Dean can’t really remember the last time he saw Cas smile so much. He’s a serious kind of guy, really, and Dean used to get this rush of pride every time he won one of those wide, eye-crinkling smiles. He’s lost count of how many get’s gotten today.

Obviously, Dean’s so goddamn distracted that he panic orders the grilled chicken special he definitely didn’t want and Cas take pity on him and wordlessly shares his meatballs. It’s easy and _good_ and having a fucking panic attack about Cas yesterday seems like a million miles away from right now, when he’s the happiest he’s been in living memory.

“It’s an hour’s drive between our apartments,” Cas says, looking at him over his glass of wine. The fact that Cas has looked this up at some point sort of makes Dean want to lean across the table and kiss him, but he’s trying to resist at least half of those urges so they actually get through dinner. 

“That’s not so bad,”

“No,” Cas says, “It isn’t.”

“Kinda thought you were further away,”

“It’s longer in traffic,” Cas says, “But given I am currently unemployed…”

“You can come entertain me whenever I damn want?”

“Yes,” Cas says, “You’re going to be sick of me.”

“Im-freaking-possible,” Dean says, picking up his own wine glass (he hasn’t drank a lot; he’s trying to be at least slightly sensible about this thing, because he’s not having Alistair take anything else away from him. He’s not fucking having it). “You need to meet Charlie.”

“The LARP queen,” Cas supplies. 

“She’s gonna freak,” Dean says, “She heard me talk about you _once_ and started calling you Dreamy McDream face. When I tell her we’re, uh...”

“Together,” 

“Right,” Dean says, feeling the word out on his tongue, “Together. She’s gonna go supersonic.”

“Assuming that _is_ what you want,” Cas says, fixing his gaze on his wine glass instead of Dean, which is generally a key indicator that he’s making a pretty obvious attempt at hiding some serious feelings about Dean (obvious, if you buy into Sam’s theories about things, or have had Cas solemnly declare that he’s in love with you, at least). 

“Well,” Dean says, swallowing, “What do _you_ want?”

“I want whatever you want.”

“Cas,” Dean says, “Now’s not exactly the time to be cagey about this crap.”

“Yes, I want to date you.”

“Boyfriend. Partners. All that jazz.”

“Yes,”

“Okay,” Dean says, swallowing past the desire to throw a fucking party. “Okay. When I tell Charlie you’re my freaking boyfriend, she’s gonna lose her shit. You’re not gonna be able to get out of meeting her. Not sure whether her or Sam is more team us-getting-together.”

“Your brother has spoken to you about this?”

“Sam snuck condoms and lube into my fucking suitcase, Cas. He is _unhealthily_ invested in this working out.” 

Cas smiles.

“None of my brothers have ever bought me condoms.”

“Not even Gabe?” Dean asks, “That, I can’t believe.” 

“Not even Gabriel,” Cas says, “Although, he is going to be painfully smug about this.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes,” Cas says, “There have been _many_ lewd jokes about this trip in the Milton & Milton group chat.”

“ _That_ sounds like a fucking disaster.”

“It is,” Cas says, “Michael and Lucifer take it in turns to fall out passive aggressively leave the chat, but Gabriel insists on re-adding them. Apparently, there may have been a bet regarding us, although I’m not sure if Zachariah was joking about that.”

“If there is, we should get someone on the inside, try and make some money.”

“Very practical,” Cas says, “Dean. Thank you for agreeing to come on this trip.”

“You couldn’t have stopped me,” Dean says, “You know I get it, right. Losing your Dad. Trying to navigate grief while trying to work out whether or not you’re still pissed at him.”

“I know,” Cas says, “I… I hope that isn’t the only reason you agreed to come on the trip.”

“No,” Dean says, “May have been another freaking reason.”

“Really,” Cas deadpans, all coy and fucking adorable as he nudges the last meatball in Dean’s direction. “What’s that?”

“I _really_ missed the beach house coffee machine.”

Cas smiles, unguarded and lovely, and it’s probably the best date of Dean’s life.

*

He’s expecting Cas to be reticent about them sleeping together again. 

He kind of figured that spilling all that stuff about what triggered his panic attack would result in Dean getting the kid-glove treatment for the rest of time, or at least this vacation. He’d figured Cas would start acting like some kind of fucking monk and that Dean would have to jump through hoops to prove that he was okay, really, that now he’s actually had some time to goddamn think, he’s alligned some of his flight-or-fight instincts to what he actually wants and he’s pretty much certain he’s got this under control. 

Cas surprises him by being fucking perfect. 

He makes sure that they talk about it. They’re making out ike a couple of kids in the corridor, haven’t even made it to the stairs, when he takes a step back and insists on coffee. Dean’s expecting to fruitlessly plead his case, but instead Cas just asks _are you sure_ in that rough, deep voice. He asks about the exact things that make Dean’s head tailspin and he asks what he can do to help if he _does_ happen again while they drink their coffee, which is pretty much a boner killer but probably goddamn sensible, and afterwards he fixes him with one of those deapans and says _"I believe the phrase is, I’m in if you are."_


	6. All the other days

It should feel quiet, with just the two of them in the house when they’re both used to summers where every bedroom is full, and Cas’ family have spilled into every crevice, but somehow it feels more normal than it did with the three of them. They’re just on vacation: one of those cooked breakfasts, beers before lunch and slow, unhurried sex in the middle of the day kind of vacations.

(Except for the part where Cas is grieving and everything about their relationship has shifted into new grounds, and Dean hasn’t gone on an honest to god vacation for years).

* 

On Wednesday, they head to the beach as soon as they wake up, because six of Cas’ weather apps say that the rain Sam predicted is definitely going to happen today and keep up until the weekend, so it might just be the last chance they get until half of Cas’ family and Sam turn back up. 

Cas makes a flask of coffee and brings two of the oldest mugs so that they can drink their morning coffee with sand between their toes and it’s actually sort of perfect. Cas is reading his book and Dean is people watching (mostly, Cas watching) and focusing on finishing his second coffee, and the general bullshit of Dean’s life feels really, really far away. 

“Hey,” Dean says, halfway through finding a way to balance his mug in the sand, “D’you decorate this mug?” 

“Dean, I’m on the last chapter of my book.” 

“This here says _Castiel, aged 7_ ,” Dean says, squinting at the squashed up font on the inside of the handle that he’s never noticed before. It’s got a lot of grandeur for kid’s handwriting, but it definitely looks like it could be a forerunner of Cas’ familiar cursive. Dean runs his thumb over and tries to imagine what a seven year old Cas would be like. Serious, he’s pretty sure. Cute. 

“Yes,” Cas says, not looking up from his book. “All of the crockery in the beach house is decorated by us. It was a gift for our father one Christmas. Naomi said it wasn’t in-keeping with the decor of our kitchen, so they were relocated to the beach house.” 

“That is both adorable and the saddest thing I’ve ever heard,” Dean says, picking up the mug to inspect it properly. He nearly spills half his coffee in the process, but he’s pretty sure it’s worth it. “How come I’ve never noticed it before?” 

Cas closes his book with an exaggerated sigh. 

“They weren’t supposed to be machine washable,” Cas says, “Most of our additions washed off.” 

“And your Dad didn’t know?” 

“Dean, there are ten of us, without the addition of cousins, other halves and friends,” Cas says, “We each made two large plates, two small plates, two bowls and two mugs. Can you imagine how long the washing up would take?” 

“So he just put it in the dishwasher anyway?” 

“Of all my father’s sins, this is one I forgave a long time ago.” 

“Right,” Dean says, as Cas cracks open his book again. “So, what was this one?” 

“I have _one chapter_ left.” 

“You said it yourself that you’ve got a _lot_ of time after you’ve finished your book,” Dean says, nudging Cas with his shoulder. Cas sighs like Dean is exceptionally inconvenient, but shuts his book again. “What’s this yellow and black thing?” 

“It was a bee.” 

“Damn, you’re cute.” 

“I _liked_ bees.” 

“I know,” Dean says, “This thing. Is that --- Is that a guy with gigantic hands?” 

“No,” Cas says, “It was my father and myself beekeeping.” 

“I take it back. _That’s_ both the most adorable and the saddest thing I ever heard,” Dean says, “Hey, who did yours?” 

“Hannah,” Cas returns, twisting it round to show Dean what’s left of the faded design, “It was the word _coffee_. She’s always been very literal.” 

“I like yours better,” 

“Of course you do,” Cas says, “Anna’s were the best. Hers are the ones with the geometric pattern. The bowl survived very well.” 

“Oh, yeah,” Dean says. He’s pretty sure he remembers Sam eating cereal out of that at the beginning of the week. “Doesn’t have as much rustic charm as beekeeper Cas, though.” 

“It was her idea,” Cas says, “Frankly, it’s astonishing that she managed to get everyone to go along with it.” 

“I’m just psyched I’ve got a Castiel original,” Dean says, brushing the sand off the faded green pattern Dean’s guessing was the grass part of the original design to smile at it. “Gonna go through all of them when we get back. Find all the Cas ones.” 

“You _must_ have something better to do.” 

“Nope.” 

“Fine,” Cas says, “Can I finish my book now?” 

“Okay,” Dean says, topping up his coffee to replace the stuff he splashed over the sides. Like everything that’s ever been consumed in the beach, he’s definitely somehow got sand stuck to the side of the flask and now in his coffee. 

He drinks half of his gritty coffee before he nudges Cas again, mostly just because he enjoys being a pain in the ass and because he wants to see just how much he can try his patience. 

“ _What?_ ” 

“You wanna make out?” 

Cas closes his book with a derisive huff, then pulls Dean onto Cas’ beach towel and kisses him. 

They knock both mugs of coffee into the sand and neither of them actually give a shit. 

* 

At around two pm, Cas goes back up the beach house to cook and pick up lunch and a couple of beers and they eat pizza with their backs against ‘the cliff edge’ and debate exactly when they think the rain is going to start. After, Cas very pointently says that he’s going back to his book and, given he’s not gonna get any attention from Cas, Dean digs out his phone from half under his beach towel to squint at the screen. 

He’s got a _lot_ of messages from Charlie in their usual Tuesday board game night group chat, which essentially amounts to the fact that Sam unexpectedly came to games night and said that he’d left Dean at the beach house with Cas, and now Charlie is demanding that Dean _tells her everything. Stat._. 

Benny, Ash and Garth chime in a little after that, but Bobby has been suspiciously quiet, so Dean’s pretty sure that Sam must have told him a little more. 

Not that Sam actually _could_ say a whole more than that, given the amount of information that Dean has given him on this topic. 

“Gonna call Sam,” Dean says. Cas doesn’t look up from his book but hums in acknowledgement. 

He owes Sam a proper conversation about this. 

He walks far enough away that Cas won’t be able to hear the other end of the conversation mostly to not interrupt his reading, before taking his phone out and calling his brother. 

“You at work?” Dean asks, taking a seat on a large rock that juts out into the sea. He left his shoes back with Cas and the rest of his stuff, so he stretches out his legs until the sea runs over his toes whenever there’s a particularly large wave. Dean’s pretty sure that he used this rock as a privacy barrier that time he hooked up with that girl on the beach the day Cas came out to him, but the whole place is so steeped in memories it’s hard to know for sure. 

“Lunch break.” 

“Little late, isn’t it?” 

“It’s been crazy here,” Sam says, “And I figured you’d call, at some point.” 

“Oh you did, did you?” 

“You okay?” 

“Yeah,” Dean says, a little of his contentment about today slipping into his voice. “Great, actually. Really great.” 

“So. You willing to admit I might have been right about Cas, yet?” 

“Don’t pull that I told you so shit, Sam, it’s beneath you,” Dean says, which wins him a laugh from the other end of the phone. Dean wrinkles his toes in the water and smiles at the sea. You gotta celebrate the wins, and this is a serious fucking win. “We went on an honest to god freaking date yesterday.” 

“Yeah?” Sam asks. 

“This italian place,” Dean says, “Guy even let me pay.” 

“That’s great,” Sam says. 

“Yeah.” 

“You forgiven me for leaving you, yet?” 

“Course,” Dean says, “Sammy. Sorry about that.” 

“Dean, you don’t need to apologise. It’s fine.” 

“It’s not _fine_.” 

“Okay, it’s _understandable_ ,” Sam corrects, which he’s much happier with. None of this is exactly fine, but it is… understandable. “You know I’m glad you called me rather than dealing with it on your own.” 

“Yep,” Dean says, looking out over the sea and taking a breath. He really, really wants to talk about something else. “So. On a scale of one to Charlie and Dorothy before they hooked up at Garth’s wedding, how bad were we over breakfast?” 

“Uh, so much worse,” Sam says, “Dean, you were playing _footsie_.” 

“Not _intentionally_.” 

“I had to ask you if you wanted maple syrup four times,” Sam says, bitchface audible and Dean laughs, because it is kind of funny. Poor Sam. “I thought it was bad when you were teenagers, but that was just... ” 

“If it helps,” Dean says, “About twenty minutes after you left, we were naked.” 

“It doesn’t,” Sam snorts, “So was that — the first time?” 

He’s not all that hot on playing teen-sleepover chick flick moments with his damn brother, but Sam has listened to Dean untangle a lot of the shit in his head and he deserves to here about the good stuff too.

“Yep.” 

“So, the night before? When you were all weird about the paying poker.” 

“He kissed me,” 

“So _Cas_ initiated things.” 

“Well, I guess,” Dean says, because he hadn’t really thought about it like that. After they started talking about things, it all felt sort of… inevitable, maybe? “Yeah.” 

“Knew it,” Sam says, “Bobby owes me twenty dollars.” 

“Bitch,” 

“Jerk,” Sam says, “So, you’re…” 

“Together,” Dean supplies, “Boyfriends.” 

“Hey, that’s great.” 

“It’s pretty great,” Dean says, “He’s… Cas is great.” 

“Yep,” Sam agrees, “Cas _is_ pretty great. I’m… Dean, I’m really happy for you, and I'm proud of you, you know.” 

Sam’s a good kid. He’s dealt with a lot these last few years. 

“I know,” Dean says, “Thanks, Sammy.” 

After, he walks back to Cas’ end of the beach to find him frowning at the blurb of his book, looking all tanned and relaxed and incredible. 

“You finished your book?” 

“Yes,” Cas says, squinting up at him in the sunlight. “It was very disappointing.” 

“Oh?” 

“I shouldn’t have bothered reading it,” Cas says, “The end was particularly dull. How’s Sam?” 

“Good,” Dean says, sitting back down and sending a shrug emoji in reply to Charlie’s _‘what’s going on???’_ message. “Told him about us.” 

“Oh?” 

“I mean, not like he didn’t know already,” Dean says, resting his head on his arm to look at him. “But, officially told him. He’s pretty psyched.” 

“Sam is not the only one,” Cas says, shutting his eyes. “It’s going to rain soon.” 

“Hmm,” Dean says, as Charlie responds with four question marks and an exclamation mark. 

_Has something happened with Dreamy McDreamy face????_

Dean replies with the angle face emoji. 

_Deaaaan?!?_

“Cas,” Dean says, switching his phone onto selfie mode. “Get over here a sec.” 

“What?” 

“Smile, Cas,” Dean says, and he somehow manages to capture that slightly confused, crumpled smile of Cas’ and Dean looks really, really happy. It’s sunny, and the beach is in the background and they look really fucking good together. “Charlie’s asking,” Dean supplies, hitting _send_ before dropping his phone into the sand. 

Cas smiles and kisses him, and they’re still kissing when the damn group chat explodes, and they’re still kissing when the heavens open and the rain starts. 

* 

It doesn’t matter that they run, holding hands, back up to the house to try and get out of the downpour, they still wind up with their clothes plastered to their skin, Cas’s book more or less ruined, drenched to the bone. 

“ - Sonuvabitch,” Dean mutters, forcing the porch door shut behind him. 

“The deckchairs.” 

“Leave ‘em, Cas,” Dean says, threading their fingers back together and heading for the stairs, “You’re… soaked. Need to get you out of these clothes.” 

“You’re just trying to get me naked.” 

“I’ve literally never claimed otherwise,” Dean throws back, turning around and facing him in the doorway to the master bedroom. And, damn, he cannot get enough of Cas wet. He’s hot as hell like this and Dean takes a moment to just _look_ at him with his shirt stuck to his skin, and how, exactly, does he look like he runs marathons and eats better than Sam, because Dean hasn’t seen any evidence of it? “Damnit. When it rains here, it really rains.” 

“It’s the humidity,” Cas says, “At this time of year, it — ” 

“ — Cas, I really don’t give a crap about this Meteorology crap.” 

“You started talking about the weather.” 

“Shut up and take off your shirt.” 

“Such a romantic,” Cas says, holding his hands up to allow Dean to pull his shirt over his head and then they’re making out again, with Cas trying to work Dean’s wet jeans off his legs (and damn his aversion to shorts, because that would be _way_ more convenient right now), and Dean kicking off his shoes, and — 

And if they’re naked anyway, they might as well make the most of it. 

* 

It’s been a long damn time since Dean’s felt this _comfortable_ in his own skin and in the spaces inside his head: a little like all of it was probably worth it it led him here, listening to the rain against the beach house windows, marinating in the afterglow and listening to Cas breathe. 

“Damn, that was good sex,” Dean says, mostly just to start a conversation about whatever, but a little because it’s the only thing that’s really in his head right now. It’s kind of a fucking revelation that this is a part of their relationship now, and the giddy newness of it is taking some time to wear off: now, they kiss on the beach, and sometimes Cas’ pulls off his rain sodden clothes with urgency and bite, and those long lingering looks can turn into hands scrabbling at clothes, frantic touches, lips, relief. 

Cas hums in response, sounding about as content and blissed out as Dean feels. 

“ _Really_ good,” Dean says, “Hey, you’re awesome.” 

“Thank you,” Cas says, voice all rough and gorgeous. He’s got that Cas smile that kind of reminds Dean of the third day of summers at the beach house, when all the stuff about school, and Naomi and the Milton drama was washed away by the sea. It’s that smile that tightens something in Dean’s chest, because it’s goddamn terrifying that someone can do so little and yet make him happy. 

And that’s without the rest of, like the fact that Cas is lying on his side with his body titled towards him under the single bedsheet, close enough that their legs are touching where his knee’s bent. Or the fact that they’re sharing the same pillow, calmly talking about _sex_ like it’s not one of the best things to happen to Dean in years. Or, that they’re together; boyfriends. 

( _You can’t run, Dean. Not from me. I’m inside that angsty little noggin of yours_ , except there’s a lot of other shit in his brain too, so fuck Alistair. Fuck him.) 

“Dude,” Dean says, “You’re supposed to say _it was all you, Winchester, best sex I’ve ever had_ or some crap like that, not just take the compliment.”. 

Cas tilts his head to look at him properly. 

“So you just said that to prompt a compliment about your sexual prowess?” 

“No,” Dean says, “It’s just frigging polite.” 

“It’s _polite_?” Cas says, “Apologies, I wasn’t aware I was bound by the rules of politeness. Thank you for the orgasm, Dean. It was lovely.” 

“Now you’re just being a smart ass.” 

“Perhaps,” Cas smirks, propping himself up on his elbows so that Dean can look at him straight in the eye. “How’s this for ‘polite’: we were fourteen and you’d been withdrawn and miserable for most of the last six months. Your father had left you at Bobby’s and disappeared, although you hadn’t told me that yet. We’d been here for four days. It was raining and we were playing poker, which was not my idea.” Cas says, deadpan, their legs pressed together under the sheet. 

“Yeah, I remember.” 

“You noticed the rain stopped, dropped the full house in your hands and _ran_ , hellbent on reaching the sea first. You ran straight into the water, fully dressed, with your shoes still on. I followed you in, because that’s what I did back then --- I followed you.” 

Dean doesn’t really ever remember it being like that, but maybe it was. If anything, this past week or so has taught him that his perspective on things was a little whacked. In _his_ head, Cas would have laughed him out the joint if Dean had let the facade hiding his feelings slip for a hot minute, but here Cas is, spilling affection everywhere. 

“It was very cold, and Michael had beaten us, but you laughed for the first time in weeks, and it occurred to me that I was in love with you.” 

Cas dried out his sneakers on the radiator in Sammy’s room, and they sat out on their deckchairs and Dean told him what was happening. His damn shoes had sand in for weeks, but he didn’t really care. It kind of grounded him, actually. 

Dean swallows. 

“Dean,” Cas says, like the goddamn word is precious, “You said you’d come to the wake and at first I was just _relieved_ because it meant there was someone there on my side, and then I looked at you and I was furious.” 

“Cas,” Dean begins, but Cas reaches forward to put a finger to his lips to silence him. 

“Hush, Dean. I’m being sentimental. I thought it was unfair the first summer after I left college, when you’d somehow transformed from a very good looking teenager to an indisputably beautiful adult man. And then,” Cas says, with an almost growl of frustration underlying his voice, “I don’t see you for _seven years_ and you become the most attractive individual I’ve ever seen in my life?” Cas continues, and there’s some thrill of excitement and embarrassment and the desire to _laugh_ at that. “It was unspeakably cruel, Dean, for you to be so _perfect_ and so straight.” 

“Your word, Cas, not mine.” 

“Gabriel caught me when I was getting us drinks. He fixed me with this infuriating look and said _he looks good, huh?_ ” 

“Gabe’s an ass.” 

“Yes,” Cas says, vehemently, “He is a _complete ass_ , and I am depressingly obvious when it comes you. Except, apparently, to you.” 

“You’re,” Dean says, mouth dry, “You’re obvious to me with just about everything else.” 

“I know,” Cas smiles, “It’s very annoying.” 

“My bad.” 

“And yes,” Cas finishes, “That was ‘damn good’ sex and it is cathartic and _incredible_ not to regulate my behavior around you anymore, and I am,” Cas says, serious and compelling and so fucking sincere, “Awestruck.” 

“Cas,” Dean exhales, “You, uh.” 

“I love you,” Cas says. 

And, what the hell is he supposed to do with that? 

He’s not _good_ at words. He’s better than he used to be (therapy will do that to you; there’s only so long you can sit and pay for someone to listen to bullshit until you cut the crap and say what’s actually going on in your head), but his knee jerk reaction is still to make some dumb joke to lighten them mood. He’s still not fast and loose with sentiment, but. 

Then there’s Castiel. 

Dean runs his tongue over his lips. 

“You left your coat in my apartment after our fight,” Dean says, “That goddamn trench coat. I, uh. Drove around with in the trunk of my car for six months.” Cas smiles and shifts to rest his head on Dean’s shoulder. “I --- I’m, you know I don’t, uh, Cas...” Dean says, hopelessly. 

“Yes, I know Dean,” Cas says, “I’ve known you long enough and well enough to know to listen to what you do for people.” 

“Yeah, but,” Dean says, “I _want_ to, do that stuff. Communicate.” Dean says, “If that listening to what I do crap worked you’d have kissed me in tenth grade.” 

Cas threads their fingers together and smiles. 

“What happened to my coat?” 

“Alistair found it,” Dean says, “And, uh, mostly I underplayed anything to do with you, so, uh I chucked it out. That one hurt, a lot.” 

“Self-preservation.” Cas supplies. It wasn’t really about that. Alistair wasn’t exactly the type to get jealous, but he was the type to seek out weaknesses, press bruises and open up just-healed wounds. And he was the type to do whatever the hell he could to make some cash. If he’d know that Dean’s childhood best friend had access to a goddamn trust fund, it could have been… ugly. Uglier. He doesn’t want to talk about not that right now, though, when he’s butt naked and content. Alistair has no right to have any space at this moment. “It will not surprise you to know that I purchased a new trench coat.” 

Dean huffs a laugh and shuts his eyes for a few moments. 

This is a _good day_. 

“Hmm,” Cas says, sitting up and stretching. “Need clothes.” 

“That’s crazy talk,” 

“It’s the middle of the day, Dean.” 

“And we’re at the beach in the rain,” Dean says, “Let’s just — stay here.” 

“We’ve been in bed for,” Cas picks up Dean’s phone and frowns, “Two hours.” 

“And?” 

“And you have a number of messages from Charlie, and I need coffee.” 

“Coffee, I can get behind.” 

“How about,” Cas says, “I will get dressed and then bring you coffee.” 

“Not getting this obsession with getting dressed, man.” 

“I want to shower,” Cas says, “And we need to dry things.” 

“Allright,” Dean concedes, sitting up and watching Cas stand up and track progress around the bedroom, shamelessly checking out his ass as he reaches to pick up their clothes. 

“Everything is covered in sand,” Cas says, forehead wrinkled. 

“For a guy who’s spent so many summers in a beach house, you’re pretty freaking anal about sand.” 

“It gets everywhere.” 

“You don’t need to tell me that, hotshot.” 

“I’m going to do a load of laundry.” 

“Now you’re picking _laundry_ over me?” Dean asks, sitting on the edge of the bed. 

“Do you have anything else, before I go and get mine?” 

“Not for nothing, Cas, but you’ve spent the last however many nights here,” Dean says, “And as much as I _like_ you wandering around all naked and sexy, why don’t you just move your crap in here?” 

Cas blinks at him. 

“Know this was your Dad’s room and you didn’t wanna stay here, but…” 

Half an hour later, Cas’ fancy ass suitcase is lined up next to Dean’s battered old thing in the Beach House master bedroom, Cas is putting their laundry into the machine while Dean tries to dry out the pages of Cas’ book on the radiator of the sitting room. 

It’s pretty domestic and fucking wonderful, considering that at the beginning of this trip Dean didn’t really know how to navigate a conversation with the guy without stepping on a landmine. 

* 

On Thursday, it’s still raining and they play scrabble. Dean agrees on the condition that Cas only uses ‘real words’, specifically crap he’s heard Dean say out loud. Somehow that translates to Cas trying to spell out as many dirty words as possible, and that turns into a pretty heated debate about whether Dean’s ever said the word fellatio, that turns pretty heated. At some point, the board gets knocked off the table and Dean winds up trying to dig out the scrabble letters from under the fridge with half the buttons of his shirt undone. 

After that, Cas suggests a fucking jigsaw, which just about wins out over watching the cheaper by the dozen movie. 

Cas gives him the rundown of what each of his siblings are doing while he bosses Dean around about the correct way to find the edge pieces and then Dean talks about Bobby and work and whatever random crap that comes up. 

It’s stopped raining enough that they grill burgers outside for dinner and it’s a nice and relaxing, even if Cas gets in a bit of a snit about the fact that they left their deckchairs out in the rain for two nights. 

He drags them into the house with some passive aggressive comments about Dean not being helpful, which he eventually apologizes for when he comes downstairs from his shower to find Dean still sifting through the rest of the jigsaw pieces to find the ones with trees in the Cas-approved method.

It might technically be their second argument as a couple, and Dean’s taking it as a good sign that they make up by gratuitously making out on the tiny beach house sofa.

* 

“Cas,” Dean says, wandering down the stairs of the beach house with his forehead pinched. It’s the middle of the damn night, but he woke up and Cas wasn’t next to him in bed and that disturbed him enough that he dragged himself out of bed and headed for the stairs. “Cas,” Dean says again, pausing in the doorway to the kitchen and squinting at him in the dark. “You okay?” 

“Hello, Dean,” Cas says, looking up from his mug and frowning. Cas looks weary; a lot like someone who’s been working themselves to the bone for the last few years , rather than someone who’s been doing nothing but read, sunbathe and screw for the past ten days. He looks a lot more like the Cas that Dean knew seven years ago than the one he hasn’t been able to keep his hands off for the last few days. 

Dean sits down opposite him at the kitchen table. He’s got his cell phone and the Cas mug set in front of him, thumb tracing over the place where his name is written. 

“What’s up?”

“It’s my father’s birthday today.” There’s not a lot that Dean can say about that. “He’s supposed to be sixty eight.”

“Cas,”

“He worked at Milton & Milton until he was thirty nine, at the bequest of his mother in law.”

“I didn’t know that,”

“He hated it,” Cas says, “He ostentatiously quit to look after my mother, but really it was to write those books. He used to email them to me when he finished them, even when I wasn’t speaking to him. I stopped reading them at eighteen. I know how they were supposed to _end_ , because he told me on his deathbed.” Cas says, staring at his hands, a half attempt at bitter humour that doesn’t suit him one bit leaking into his voice. “ I made peace with him because he was dying, and I don’t know whether it was real.”

“You were trying to do right by him.”

“I told him I forgave him,” Cas says, “But I was lying and he knew it.”

“Forgiving your parents is a lifetime occupation, Cas,” Dean says, “You know, Sammy came round to a lot of the crap Dad used to do and say after he died, and I just got _pissed_. Been angrier at him since then than I ever was when he was alive.”

“You were remarkably tolerant and obedient to his wishes.”

“Cas,” Dean says, “Chuck wanted to know that you _wanted_ to forgive him. It’s okay that you weren’t there yet. The fact that you were there hearing him out was enough.”

“He was _dying_.”

“You got to make a version of peace with him,” Dean says, “Not everyone gets that.”

“I know,” Cas says, looking up at him. “I am _glad_ I had that warning. I’m glad that we had summers here and that he sent me his idiotic stories and that before he died he told me that I should find you and talk to you.”

Dean didn’t know about that, but it sounds like the kind of thing that Chuck would do. 

“It’s _good_ that I am now speaking to most of my siblings, even if it is just about our inheritance. It is…. It’s good that I have quit my job and left that hateful company. Gabriel and Samandriel are coming here tomorrow like we’re real brothers and, there’s _you_. I just don’t understand how I can feel so happy and so unhappy at the same time.”

Dean stands up and heads for the top shelf over the oven, stretching slightly to get a grip on the bottle of _seriously good_ scotch that’s been there as many summers as Dean remembers.

The one time anyone ever really got _in trouble_ during those summers was when Lucifer raided the top shelf and poured most of the other kids a measure of the stuff on the beach. Cas flat out refused to drink it, but Dean can still remember the burn at the back of his throat as it went down. It was the night of the infamous spin the bottle game and he was always kind of into the idea that he probably tasted like whisky when Cas kissed him. He didn’t really _like_ the stuff then, but there was still something about it.

And then Chuck found out the bottle was gone and came storming down to the beach. Next morning, Lucifer was sent back to the Milton house for the rest of the summer, and no one ever suggested drinking it again.

Cas looks at him warily as Dean crosses the kitchen with two glasses and the bottle, settling against the kitchen table, close enough to Cas that he can reach out and touch him if he wanted.

“Welcome to the human condition, Sweetheart,” Dean says, pouring two glasses and offering him a bitter sort of smile. “It sucks.”

“We’re not supposed to drink that.”

“Cas,” Dean says, “If _ever_ there’s a time to drink Chuck’s whisky, it’s right now.”

“You haven’t been drinking,” Cas says, because of course Castiel is observant enough to notice that Dean’s been pretty careful and precise about drinking since that damn panic attack. He has been drinking, just not… in a serious, hard liquor, not-safe-to-drive kind of way.

“I’m fine,” Dean says, “Trust me.”

“Always.”

Dean exhales at that. 

“It’s okay to miss your Dad and still be kinda pissed at him and it’s okay to not really know how the fuck you feel about it,” Dean says, voice low, “And it’s okay to be happy about us and still freaked about not having a job and angry that you didn’t get more time with your father. It’s okay, Cas.”

“He let me down,” Cas says, looking up at Dean with those eyes, “But I loved him.” 

“I know,” Dean says, and then Cas is standing up to collapse into Dean’s space, letting Dean wrap his arms around him. They stay like that for a long time, embracing in the dark. 

Eventually, Cas takes a step back and rebuilds his composure. It takes another moment before he reaches for the glasses, but he does. 

“To Chuck,” Dean says, holding it aloft. 

“To my father,” Cas says, eyes shining, “Happy Birthday.” 

It’s a bitter, warm burn at the back of his throat and it’s equal parts delicious and sad. 

“You should come back to bed, Cas.” 

“I - no.” 

“Okay,” Dean says. 

“I want to watch,” Cas trails off, worrying his bottom lip. “He recorded it for me because he thought I would like it.” 

“Yeah,” Dean says, “I know. Why d’you think I put up with watching it six times? You… you want company?” 

Cas nods, which is why Dean ends up digging out a pile of blankets and pillows from the cupboard under the stairs, and putting the damned bee documentary on at three in the morning. Cas is curled into his chest, all wrapped up in blankets and his feelings, and that would probably make him feel like freaking Batman if Cas wasn’t so fucking sad. 

He starts crying twenty minutes in. They’re silent tears that he hides in Dean’s skin, as Dean runs a hand up and down his spine in an attempt at comfort. Mostly, he’s there as a vigil to Cas’s grief, and he holds Cas and watches the dumb documentary long after Castiel has fallen asleep in his arms. 

(At six AM, Cas wakes him up to pull him back upstairs and into bed.) 

* 

When he wakes up, there’s coffee on the bedside table but no Castiel. It is later than the usually sleep in at half eleven, but they spent half the damn night awake and some of it sleeping on that shitty sofa and Dean feels like he could use a few more hours of sleep to be actually functional. He’s pretty sure Cas not being in bed isn’t indicative that Cas is doing well, though, so he’s gotta prioritise. 

The coffee is lukewarm but passable, and Dean drinks half of it before heading for the stairs. 

“Cas,” Dean calls out as he approaches the kitchen. He stops short in the doorway in his fucking boxers though, because _Gabriel_ is sat at the kitchen table with a handful of jigsaw pieces. “Uh, Hey.” 

He saw Gabriel, briefly, at the funeral, but he didn’t really talk to anyone but Cas. He certainly hasn’t seen him enough to be this underdressed and this sleep-groggy without prior warning. 

“Deano!” 

“Gabriel turned up early,” Cas deadpans, that miserable, tired look still all over his face. Dean’s lungs constrict slightly, because he’d kind of hoped that Cas had slept off some of the rawest, grittiest parts of his grief (like they were the intense, overwhelming kind of feelings that happen at the middle of the night but feel manageable in the light of day), but it doesn’t look like Cas is faring any better than he was last night.. 

“Looks like you’ve made yourself comfortable, Winchester.” 

“Right,” Dean says, glancing back down at his attire. There’s a familiar swoop of anxiety that comes with realising he’s shirtless in front of someone who doesn’t know about the Alistair shit, but he’s probably far enough away that it doesn’t matter. “I’ll, uh. Get dressed.” 

“Your things are dry in the sitting room.” Cas says. 

“Where’s the tall one?” Gabriel asks, after Dean’s awkwardly pulled on a shirt and jeans in the sitting room and stepped back outside. 

“Uh,” Dean says, glancing at Cas. He’s very deliberately making more coffee, which Dean’s taking as confirmation that Cas hasn’t mentioned anything about the last few days to his brother and doesn’t want to acknowledge it right now. “He had to go work. He’s coming back tonight.” 

“Lawyer life, huh Cassie?” 

“Gabriel,” 

“Look, little bro --” 

“It’s an interesting use of the word ‘little’.” Cas cuts across. 

“He makes jokes!” Gabriel exclaims, slapping his hands against the table with enough enthusiasm that he disturbs several jigsaw pieces. “Now I _know_ the quitting rumours are true.” 

“There are rumours?” Cas says, dry and stony, turning to face them with a frown. Dean’s seen the robo-Cas routine enough time that it feels familiar, but he’d forgotten just how much the guy shuts down when it comes to his damn family.

“Allright, fine. Crowley told me.” 

“Why are you in contact with him?” 

“Gotta get updates about my little brother somehow.” 

“Better question,” Dean says, “Why does _Crowley_ know about it?” 

“Awh, I’ve missed the jealous Dean Winchester shtick.” 

“He works for the firm,” Cas says, brow furrowed. “Technically, he was the one who turned down my leave request.” 

“What?” 

“It’s — it’s not of import, Dean.” 

“You’ve spent the last five goddam years _working_ with the guy?” Dean asks, “And it’s not ‘of import’?” 

“Dean,” Cas implores, “Do we need to talk about this right now?” 

“I, fine,” 

“Wow, drama,” Gabriel says, “So now sleeping beauty’s up, you gonna let me go claim a room?” 

“Do what you want, Gabriel. I’ve never been able to stop you.” 

“So,” Gabriel says, “Which rooms am I avoiding?” 

“Sam was in the far right single room, Dean is in the master, I was in the far left single room.” 

“Was?” 

“Gabriel,” Cas says, “Do you have to make this so difficult?” 

“Cassie,” Gabriel says, uncharacteristically serious, “That’s really not why I’m here.”

Cas makes that wounded noise that feels a lot like a splinter to Dean’s fucking soul and that’s about all that Dean can take of Castiel being unhappy and _that far away_ when they’ve broken down those barriers, now, and it seems a lot like Gabriel did the math anyway.

He crosses the room and pulls Cas into a hug.

*

“It’s good that you’re here,” Dean says, sat out by the pool as they watch Cas avoid speaking to anyone by ‘cleaning up the porch’.

“Thanks, Buddy. Figured he’d find today… hard.”

“I know he’s being,” Dean begins, following Cas’ progress around the porch, “Very _Castiel_.”

Gabriel snorts into his cocktail.

(About the second thing Gabriel did was making himself a ‘sex on the beach’ with his own personal cocktail umbrella, that he packed and bought here for his three night trip; Dean’s not even fucking surprised). 

“You’ve got your work cut out for you there, Winchester.”

“I can handle Cas.” 

“TMI, Deano.” 

“Fuck off,” Dean says, as Cas scrubs the damn grill. 

“For what it’s worth,” Gabriel says, “It’s good you’re here, too.”

*

Sam arrives just in time to slot the final jigsaw pieces into place and share long, increasingly loud conversations with Gabriel about what-the-fuck-ever. He finds Gabriel pretty entertaining, anyway, and he brings out a lot more of the mischievous version of Sam than Dean’s usually privy too, which is usually a riot (Gabriel was the first one to suggest that Sam could deal with Dean’s overprotective brother bullshit by switching the cassette tapes in the impala and embarrassing him in public), but Dean’s a lot more concerned by the brooding, quiet unhappiness that Cas is _radiating_.

In the end, he corners Cas in the kitchen and suggests they go for a walk.

It's a nice, balmy evening down at the beach and it’s almost automatic to stop at ‘the cliff edge’ and sit, looking out across the water.

“Are you mad at me?” Cas asks, gaze intently focused on his knees.

“Nope,” Dean says, popping the p. There’s a part of him that wants to conjure up some irritation at the guy, but mostly he’s just clogged up with sympathy and concern. There’s a lot of history with Castiel and his family and it’s complicated and messy and Dean never exactly claimed to understand it all. He gets not telling family about things, even when they’re good. He can perfectly well understand why Cas hasn’t added a ‘Dean and I are dating’ update to the family group chat and its freaking obvious why he never mentioned he’s been working with Crowley for years and…. It doesn’t goddamn matter. It’s _window dressing_.

Castiel Milton fell in love with him on this beach eighteen years ago and Dean’s not sure he really cares about the rest of it.

“Mostly,” Dean says, “I’m a little worried and completely fucking in love with you.”

Cas rests his head on his shoulder and they sit on the beach until it’s too cold for them to sit out there anymore.

*

Samandriel and Anna arrive the next morning and, as it turns, Gabriel has a key to the under-the-beach-house-porch-storage. 

*

“Did you know this was here?” Dean asks, leaning against the door as Cas looks round the storage compartment under the porch. 

“The deckchairs live in the cupboard on the right,” Cas says, “I suppose it’s logical that there’s one on the left too.” 

“How come Gabriel had the key?” 

“He probably pickpocketed it,” Cas says, “Or father gave it to him.” 

“You two lovebirds best not be making out down there,” Gabriel calls from up the stairs, suddenly appearing behind him. “Any good stuff?” 

“Mostly boxes.” 

“What’s in the box, Cas?” 

“You are very irritating,” Cas says, “Dean, can you take this?” 

“Sure,” Dean mutters. He resists the urge to roll his eyes, just barely, as he takes the box out and sets it down on the Milton picnic table. 

Apparently, Cas talks about shit when he’s good and ready to. That’s not a surprise. Dean’s lived that reality for most of their teenage lives and it was annoying then, it’s just a little more frustrating when you’re sharing a bed with the guy. 

It’s hot again and he’s too hot in the jeans and shirt he’s definitely not going to take off with half of Cas’ family, even if the rest of them are wandering around in swimwear. The couple of days of rain have chased away any hint of a breeze, or cloud cover, and it’s sort of sweltering. It’s not the type of weather Dean would have chosen for clearing out a damn storage container, but… the practical side of death is never a lot of fun and he would have loved to have someone there for some of the grunt work when they were clearing out another of John Winchester’s old lock ups. Maybe Dean's been relegated from emotional-support to pack-mule, but at least he's doing _something_.

“That’s everything,” Cas says, still tense and closed off as he emerges from under the porch with a final box.

“Cassie,” Samandriel calls from the top of the porch, “You’ll want to see this.”

_This_ turns out to be half the Milton original crockery: there’s the Castiel bowl with the bee and the beekeeper; the Hannah plate that has ‘delicious’ written in wonky calligraphy; the Michael stripes and the Anna geometric pattern. Gabriel looks genuinely struck by the whole thing, as Samandriel weaves the story of the crockery to Sam, and Cas runs a thumb over the inside of the handle of the Castiel mug, awestruck and a little disbelieving.

(Later, he whispers ‘ _he kept them’_ into Dean’s neck, when they’re curled up in the master bedroom after a night of sharing increasingly wild stories about Chuck's life and using the rest of Chuck's whisky to toast his life, his exuberance, and the hidden depths of his sentiment towards his sons).

* 

On Sunday, Cas brings him coffee in bed and kisses him soundly instead of the usual ‘hello, Dean’. He slips back under the covers and starts a directionless, light conversation about this dumb TV show they used to watch together, before any of this happened.

They agree that Cas will come over to Dean’s place on after work on Tuesday and they’ll marathon watch it with pizza and beer. It’ll be there first date _not_ at the beach house, and the concept of it is actually kind of a revelation.

Dean cooks the rest of the burgers and sausages on the grill at lunch while Gabriel tells a long, complicated story about Michael and Balthazar having some kind of altercation at a Casino in Vegas. Cas _laughs_ for the first time in days, and Dean loses the thread of the conversation watching him and nearly burns the burgers. 

Then Samandriel, Anna, Gabriel and Sam head down to the beach and Castiel drags their finally-dry deckchairs out from inside and sets them up overlooking the pool. He arranges them, just right, so Dean’s is mostly in the shade and Cas can still soak up the sun and turn that fucking beautiful brown colour.

“Sorry,” Castiel says, that cloudy-day-sea blue gaze fixed on the tiny-ass pool.

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean says, thumb running over the groove where he almost carved their initials into the wood. “I get it. You're.... grief is hard. Whatever you need, Cas.” 

He’d wanted there to be some imprint of _them_ on the place; some proof of the summers they’d spent talking about whatever on these chairs, or at the beach, or in one of the pokey little dorm rooms, falling in love and not talking about it.

When he was eighteen, it had all felt so _fleeting_. He’d been so damn sure that Cas would disappear to college in California and that he’d lose him forever. That whole summer, he’d been _convinced_ it would be the last time he ever saw the beach house. He memorised the curve of the banister and the number of steps down to the beach; the way Cas’ expression softened in the sun and just how many hours it took before he started to tan. He wanted to keep all of it: Chuck behind the grill, cooking sausages; bonfires down by the sea; laughing as Cas’ whole family legged it towards the water as the rain dried out.

He’d almost decided to risk it all and tell Cas exactly how he felt because he was so _certain_ that it was all over, anyway, but then they’d had that fight, and made up, and Dean abandoned carving their initials into their deckchairs so that they could watch one final sunset on the beach.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t need to thank me, asshole,” Dean says, “M’ your damn boyfriend. Pretty sure it’s part of the package.” 

“Such a romantic.” 

“That’s me.” 

“We leave tomorrow,” Cas says, and he’s looking at Dean again now. 

“Yeah,” Dean says. Maybe he kind of wishes that he’d said something back then, or before that, even, but it’s hard to detangle all the pieces of their lives and make them make sense any other way. There’s a lot of shit that he could have done without, but… “Think I’m just about ready to go home, get back to real life.” 

It’s okay. They survived and they’re here, and the beach house looks exactly the same as it always has. 

“Yes,” Cas agrees, nudging their knees together. “Me too.” 


End file.
